Past, Present and Future
by Witch of Eastwick
Summary: Gawain's wench disappears from his bed and Arthur finds a murderous young woman in his room. Things suddenly are not as quiet as they were around the fort. Their last Woad season coming up, the knights try to find out what she is hiding.
1. Barmaid

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything or anyone you recognize from the movie. I just like to play around...

**Author's note: **This is my first King Arthur fic. Reviews are very welcome. Let me know what you think!

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**Barmaid**

"Anwen!"

The barmaid rolled her eyes with a smile when Lancelot pulled her into his lap. "Aye?"

"Tell us, how long have you been here now, working in the Tavern?"

"About two weeks, why?" she asked, wrapping one of his curls around her finger.

"Don't you think it's time we amuse ourselves in my bed?" Lancelot grinned. Gawain, Galahad, and Bors laughed.

"No, I don't, love. In fact, I look forward to amusing myself for many more moons outside your bed," Anwen replied, winking at him. She got up from his lap, saying, "I'll send Elen over to you. I'm sure she'd love to spend time inside your bed."

Lancelot shrugged. "Fine". He gave her a friendly slap on the behind as she moved over to Gawain.

Anwen poured wine in the mug of the sniggering Gawain. As he moved to pull her close as well, she threatened, "Watch out, my dear knight, or this jug will connect with your nose."

As Anwen had shown many times that she had no scruples whatsoever of doing so, Gawain quickly dropped his hands. She ruffled his hair. "There's a good lad."

Smirking at him the barmaid walked back to the bar, avoiding groping hands with skill. She filled another pitcher with wine while she surveyed the four knights that were present this night. Most of them were completely inebriated.

_Good, _she thought, _it will make things a lot easier._

As the night passed quickly, the only visitors left were the Sarmatian knights. Anwen started thinking about the best way to get inside the main building without suspicion. She needed company. And the best company would be one of the knights.

Lancelot was fully taken up in kissing Elen's bosom. Anwen's eyes skipped to another knight. Bors kept to Vanora, another barmaid. That left Galahad or Gawain. Anwen decided that she might as well take as much pleasure out of this as she could and settled for the one she found most attractive.

Gawain wasn't surprised when Anwen put her hand on his shoulder; barmaids were always affectionate to the fort's soldiers. Anwen hadn't bedded any of them though, which was unusual for a barmaid. They were better off than the fort's whores, but the job was poorly paid. Most of them didn't mind a little extra work on the side.

Anwen's hand lingered on his shoulder. Gawain looked up to her face. She gave him a enticing smile and his body stirred. "Everything well, Anwen?" he asked.

The enticing smile lingered. "Very well."

Encouraged by her reaction Gawain risked his nose and pulled her into his lap. She made herself comfortable and put an arm around his neck, displaying cleavage in front of the knight's eyes. He licked his lips at the sight of the white flesh. Her soft scent filled his nose and he buried his face in her neck.

Anwen shivered when he kissed the soft skin there and tilted her head. He trailed his kisses upwards until he found her mouth and claimed it. She kissed back, revealing experience.

_So it's not lack of experience that has kept her from more than flirting. This is going to be a good night,_ Gawain thought with pleasure, as he slipped his tongue past her lips.

A little while later she broke the kiss, asking in a husky voice, "Your room, Gawain?"

Gawain got up and Anwen slid off his lap. He took her hand and they walked out of the Tavern.

Mistaking her smile for anticipation of a night with Gawain, Lancelot sputtered, "How did he do it?"

Galahad laughed and slapped his friend on the back. "You can't have 'm all."

"Yes, I can," Lancelot replied immediately. "Coming, Elen?"

"Aye."

"G'night, Galahad," Lancelot grinned.

Bors left with Vanora shortly after. Galahad downed the last of his wine and staggered to his room, frowning over the unusualness of going there alone.

* * *

Gawain untied the laces of Anwen's dress, revealing more skin with each movement of his fingers. 

Anwen slapped his hands away and pulled his tunic over his head. Gawain chuckled at her impatience. She fisted her hands in his long hair, kissing him hard. Gawain's hands gripped her waist to press her tightly against his body. She melted into him for a moment, before she pushed him onto his bed and took off her dress. With a teasing smile she slowly walked closer to him.

Gawain put his hands on her hips and kissed her stomach. His beard scraped against her skin when he teased her belly button and breasts, enjoying the feel of her hands wrapping in his hair. With a growl that made her shiver he pulled her onto the bed and pushed her gently down.

He never saw the web of silver lines across her back. He quickly removed his breeches and lay on top of her, kissing and nipping at her neck and breasts. Gawain's hands roamed over her body, while he tasted her skin.

She wrapped her legs around him, urging him to take her with moans and whispers.

Unable to withstand her any longer he did, and soon lost himself in her touch, falling into a deep and peaceful sleep afterwards.

* * *

Loud commotion woke the knights in the middle of the night. They stormed to Arthur's room, where the shouts and clatter came from. 

When Tristan and Lancelot stormed in first, they saw an unexpected sight. Galahad ran through the doorway next and bumped into the frozen Lancelot. Dagonet followed immediately.

Arthur held Excalibur at the throat of a young woman, his other arm hanging limply at his side due to a stab in the shoulder. His shirt was red with blood.

"Drop them," Arthur snarled.

The woman dropped her two knives and stared completely unconcerned and with an arrogant expression on her face at the Roman commander.

"Anwen!" Galahad cried out in shock.

Gawain and Bors rushed in, stopping dead at the scene in the room. "Anwen?" they asked simultaneously.

"Yes?" she inquired in a conversational tone.

"What are you doing?" Gawain asked bewildered.

"Staring at a rather pointy sword. Can't you see?" The woman rolled her eyes contemptuously.

"Why?" Galahad asked dumbfounded.

"She just tried to kill me," Arthur seethed.

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	2. Assassin

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the characters from the movie. Don't sue; I've just been on a holiday, haven't any money left for you...

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**Assassin**

"You're one of the barmaids, aren't you?" Arthur asked.

The woman shrugged.

"She's only been here for a fortnight," Tristan said.

"Ah, the silent one does know how to speak," Anwen scoffed. When Tristan repaid her with an intimidating glare, she looked away from him.

"So you just used me to get close to Arthur," Gawain concluded through gritted teeth.

"Indeed. It's quite useful that men usually don't think with their _brains,_" she said in a satisfied voice.

Lancelot unsheathed one of his swords and pointed it at her throat. "Arthur, let Dagonet check that wound. I'll watch her."

She sighed. "Can't you just kill me now and be done with it? It's been a long night and I'm tired."

"What?" Lancelot asked incredulously.

"As if you're going to let me live after trying to kill your commander. It is rude to keep a lady waiting, you know." She tapped her foot impatiently on the floor.

"A lady!" Gawain spat. "No lady behaves like you do. You're nothing but a scheming whore."

Anwen rolled her eyes. "That is your hurt pride talking. You'll get over it. Get one of the other wenches to soothe you and it'll pass." Cold disdain dripped from her words.

Dagonet examined the wound in Arthur's shoulder. "That's a close call, Arthur. A little more to the left and she would have pierced your lung."

"Too bad I missed," Anwen said with an arrogant smirk.

"Too bad you didn't know I was awake," Arthur snapped back.

"Too bad your door creaks…Oh well, can't control everything," the woman shrugged carelessly.

Lancelot stared at her in disgust.

"Let's kill her," Bors growled, fingering a dagger.

"Yes, please do. I'm bored," Anwen sighed.

"We're not killing her, until we know who she works for," Tristan said quietly.

The knights jerked their heads towards their scout, who was watching the woman closely.

"Who I work for?" Anwen sneered. "My, my, aren't we the intelligent one. Or so you like to think. I work alone, scout."

Tristan drew a dagger and held it at her throat. He moved his face close to hers and hissed, "I suggest you hold your lies from now on. Who gave the order to kill Arthur?"

Anwen stared in his eyes with a defiant gleam in her own. She moved her face even closer to his, causing a small trickle of blood down her neck, since Tristan refused to pull his dagger back. "Fool!" She let out a chilling laugh. "Don't think you can make me talk."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps. But I know enough ways of trying to make you talk. I will enjoy myself for weeks."

"Glad to be of help," she snarled. "I wouldn't want to be responsible for your lack of entertainment."

"Tristan."

The scout pulled back at the sound of his commander's voice, wiping the blood of his dagger with a menacing stare. The woman didn't notice it or pretended not to notice it.

"How old are you, girl?" Arthur asked.

Anwen blinked. It was an unexpected question, but she saw no point in lying. "Almost seventeen, I guess."

"You don't know?" Galahad frowned.

"Haven't been paying much attention to my age for a long time."

"Why is that?" Arthur asked.

Anwen turned her head to the commander and snorted. "Too occupied with other things." Her eyes dropped for a second, but she lifted them almost immediately and glared provocatively at Arthur. "Now, if I may make a suggestion…when you kill me, stab me through the heart. Much less blood to clean than if you slit my throat."

For a moment Arthur was lost for words.

"But I don't want to be demanding. Feel free to kill me any way you wish," she said, smiling in a indulging way.

"Why are you so eager to die, girl?" Arthur asked.

Anwen raised an eyebrow. "Do you see anything worth living for…?"

Arthur frowned. "How about family, friends?"

"Don't have a family, don't want friends. Before you start about lovers and husbands and make me gag: don't want those either."

"Is your name even Anwen?" Gawain hissed.

"Of course not, idiot. What do you think?" she sighed exasperated. "Now, can we get back to the point here? How you are going to kill me?"

"What is your name?"

"Scout, you are getting on my nerves. Drop the interrogation, because I'm not telling you! Do you want me to spell it out for you?"

Tristan's hands moved to his weapons again when she said, "I. Am. Not. Telling. You. My. Name." The derisive smirk on her face was unbearable to watch.

"Anwen!" Arthur barked. "Or whatever your name is…I suggest you take more caution with your words, since you are already facing a lot of trouble."

Anwen yawned. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, if you want to turn it into a public execution, I won't mind either. But it won't be necessary if you keep talking for much longer. You'll bore me to death!"

Arthur ignored her taunt and turned to Tristan. "Are you sure she is working for someone?"

Tristan stared at the woman, who refused to avert her eyes. "Aye. Why would a sixteen-year-old girl want you dead on her own?"

"Because I don't like him?" Anwen goaded.

"Maybe," Tristan snapped, "if you had lived here longer than a fortnight and had met Arthur more than once."

"You're right. Lock her in a cell. We'll talk to her later," Arthur decided.

Anwen shrugged. Lancelot narrowed his eyes, hissing, "I say we kill her now and be rid of the whore."

"Watch who you're calling a whore, Lancelot. I'm not the one sleeping in another bed every night, you piece of filth," Anwen growled, a sudden anger flaring up in her eyes.

"If we kill her now, we won't know who's behind it. Next time we may not be able to stop an attack," Tristan stated calmly.

"Bors, Galahad, take her to a cell. Tell no one what happened, until we know how far this goes," Arthur ordered.

"I'll get clean water and bandages," Dagonet said and left the room.

Anwen remained calm when the two knights grabbed her arms and started dragging her out of Arthur's room. She recoiled from Galahad's touch. He was so young, although years older than her. He reminded her of how she should be and it made her sick.

Without a word they left her in a small cell. Anwen was relieved she was alone in the dim place, although she could hear a soft, murmuring voice in the cell next to her. Giving an annoyed grunt she settled against the back wall, waiting for the interrogation that would come soon.

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Thanks very much for the reviews! Please keep them coming. I'd really like to know what you think. 


	3. Prisoner

**Thanks to my reviewers: **op, KnightMaiden, maroonraspberry, LANCELOTTRISTANBABY!

**Disclaimer: **the usual...

**Warning! **Violence in this chapter. Read at your own risk. Also: dark Tristan. Like not, read not...But no flames, please. There is a point to all this.

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**Prisoner**

It was not as bad as she had thought. After she was searched carefully for any hidden weapons, Arthur came alone to her cell. He asked questions, which she ignored. She stared at the wall, not acknowledging his presence. After a week she opened her mouth. "Did you know the left wall has 209 stones and the right one only 199?" she asked the Roman commander. "It's fascinating, really."

Arthur gave an annoyed sigh. "Anwen, you're only making this harder for yourself. If you don't start talking, I'll have no choice but to turn to other measures."

Anwen raised a contemptuous eyebrow. "This is supposed to scare me? Why don't I start pretending to shake with fear?" She turned her gaze to the wall again.

Arthur clenched his jaw and stalked out of the cell, followed by the woman's chuckles.

Anwen estimated she had been in the cell for an entire day, when footsteps headed her way again.

"I see my entertainment has arrived," she scoffed when Arthur, Galahad, and Tristan stepped inside.

"Get up!" Galahad snapped.

"Well, only because you ask so nicely," Anwen smirked and scrambled to her feet. She tilted her head to one side. "Now, gentlemen... Shall we?" She smiled so lovely it made her seem like an innocent girl. It took Arthur and Galahad by surprise and they hesitated for a moment.

Tristan curled his lip up in disgust and grabbed her arm. "Stop your devices, woman. They don't work."

Anwen shrugged. "Can't blame a girl for trying."

Galahad, embarrassed that he had fallen for the trick, grabbed her other arm and they brought her to a larger room. Arthur closed the door. They planted her on a seat and stood around her, forcing her to look up to them even more than when she stood on her feet.

"First, your name," Arthur said.

"Anwen."

"You've already told us that's not your real name", Galahad said.

"I lied," she drawled and grinned at the knights. Immediately Tristan slapped her across the face.

She touched her mouth and looked at the blood. "Bastard," she muttered.

"I said I was going to enjoy this," the scout explained stoically. "The more you refuse to cooperate, the more I will amuse myself."

Anwen rolled her eyes. "I'm a very caring person," she snarled. "I would hate to see you unable to amuse yourself." She leaned forward with a acid stare. "My name is Anwen."

Tristan didn't take the bait, but merely gave her a dangerous look.

"Are you really sixteen?" Arthur asked.

"Aye. No point in lying about that," she said.

"Why did you come here?" Galahad asked.

Anwen smirked. "Because I just love being a barmaid." It cost her another smack across the face, splitting her lip. She licked the blood away. "Not very inventive, are you, Tristan?"

"Don't want to scare you to death just now," he replied with a wolfish grin, "but soon I will." His eyes glittered darkly.

Anwen was unable to stop the ripples of fear crawling over her skin. She showed no sign of it to the scout. Instead she faked a yawn. "Promises, promises…" she muttered.

Arthur lowered himself to her eye-level, squatting in front of her. "You are only sixteen, and already an assassin and not caring to die. What happened to you?"

"Nothing happened to me. I love to kill."

"But you failed," Arthur stated.

"Nobody's perfect."

"Are you truly willing to let yourself be tortured to death to protect your master?"

"He's not my master!" she hissed venomously, leaning forward to lunge at Arthur. Realising she had just admitted she worked for another, she sat up straight in the seat again and stared at the wall.

"That was easy," Tristan scoffed. She shot him a deadly glare.

"Who is it that you work for?" Arthur asked.

She kept silent, staring at the wall again.

"Let me beat it out of her," Tristan requested in a cold voice.

"Not yet," Arthur denied, hopeful because of the reaction he had got out of her. Whether the man who had ordered the kill was her master of not, she didn't have warm feelings for him. Maybe she could be coaxed into telling them.

"Who is it?"

Silence.

"Anwen, who ordered you to kill me?"

Silence.

"Anwen…"

"Arthur, go fuck yourself or one of your knights and stop bothering me. It's annoying."

"Very well," Arthur said, "she's yours, Tristan." He stepped back with Galahad.

Tristan eyed the small dark-haired woman sitting in front of him. After a moment she looked in his eyes. It was there. Only for a moment, but he was sure he had seen it. Fear. So she was afraid of him. _Good,_ he thought.

"His name, woman," Tristan ordered.

She rolled her eyes. Tristan moved in and slapped her. Dark bruises were already beginning to show on her face. It didn't bother him. She had brought this upon herself.

"His name."

Her tongue licked her lips, feeling the cut for a moment. She sighed, but said nothing. Tristan slapped her twice, not holding back once.

She cringed and tears of pain appeared in her eyes. She still refused to utter a single word. Tristan moved closer and wove his hand in her hair. He jerked her head back, making her look in his eyes. "I can keep this up for days, woman. Talk."

She stared back. The defiant gleam that had been constantly there earlier had vanished. "Do what you want," she said in a flat voice. "I don't care."

Tristan let go of her hair. He had seen this a few times before. Dead eyes. She would not talk now. He would have to lure her out.

"Take her back to her cell. We'll continue this later," Tristan told Galahad.

"What?" the youngest knight protested.

"Look at her. She has completely withdrawn herself from us." Tristan looked at Arthur. "This is not the first time she's faced torture. I may not be able to _scare_ her into telling." He kept his voice low so she would not hear.

Arthur looked at the passive woman. Only sixteen. Then he braced himself and nodded. "Do what you have to do," he told his scout.

* * *

Galahad and Tristan dragged her back to her cell, dropping her on the straw sack that was her bed. 

They met Arthur again in the Hall for a meeting with the other knights.

"Did your device work?" Bors asked.

"No," Arthur said, "she won't say a word."

"Damn that little whore," Lancelot hissed. "I suppose you'll keep this up then?"

"Look," Galahad piped up, "is there no other way? She's only a girl."

"She's an assassin, Galahad; one that nearly killed Arthur," Gawain growled, "not a girl."

"I'm as reluctant as you are, Galahad," Arthur sighed, "but Woads don't use people like her. Whoever is behind it, is Roman. And who knows who they will attack next? Or how far this goes? Other officers could be in danger and it is my duty to find out. One way or the other." He dismissed the knights.

Tristan went to Dagonet for compresses and to the kitchens for food. After having left her alone for about an hour, he went back to her cell.

She was lying on her back on the sack, fingering the bruises and cuts. She looked at him when he entered, raising a haughty eyebrow. "Back so soon?" She sat up and scrambled to her feet. "My, you do get bored easily. I'm impressed."

Tristan felt pleased. It was as he thought. Her provoking attitude was back. It proved she had seen torture before. She only withdrew herself as a means of protection. He would have to break through that wall. Eyeing the slender body of the woman, he estimated how much she could take.

"Sit down."

Anwen stiffened when she heard the lack of ice in his voice. She sat down when he approached her, every inch of her body tensed. This man was unpredictable.

He put a bag next to her and placed a jug on the floor. He handed her half a loaf of bread. She looked at his outstretched hand with disgust.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I don't want you to starve to death," was his simple answer.

"How very chivalrous of you," she scorned, but took the bread anyway. She tore a piece off the loaf and chewed on it, wincing because of the bruises.

Tristan sat next to her on the sack and noticed her tense even further. She stopped chewing and watched him from the corner of her eye. He fumbled in the bag, revealing the compress.

She looked at the compress for a second, but asked, "What's in the jug?"

"Water."

She stretched her hand out. He gave her the jug and she drank greedily from it.

"Let me see your face," Tristan asked after she had put the jug down.

"Why?" Her voice was filled with suspicion.

"So I can put the compress on it. It will stop the swelling."

She backed away from him when he tried to put it against her face. "Stay away from me," she hissed, eyes flaring up. He held the compress out on his hand.

She took it quickly and scooted a little further away from him. After establishing what she thought was a safe distance, she pressed the cloth in her hand against her face.

She leaned against the wall, tucking her knees under her chin. She watched him closely. "Well…?" she finally spat out.

"What?" Tristan said calmly.

"Why are you still here? I won't starve and the bruises won't kill me. You can go now."

"Why won't you tell me his name and be done with it?"

She snorted. "Whether I get killed by you or one of _his_ men doesn't matter. You're all the same and I am already dead."

"You hold no affection for him. Why protect him?"

"I hold no affection for Arthur either. Why help him?" she retorted.

"I can offer you a quick death. Arthur may even let you live if you tell him. His religion teaches him forgiveness."

"I have no wish to live. Kill me now or after torturing me. It matters naught."

Tristan got up and left the cell. The next day he beat her much worse, while Lancelot and Arthur watched. She refused to say anything useful. Her taunts brought Lancelot to the point of fuming and Arthur had to hold him back.

Though the beatings got worse and worse, Anwen would not speak. She was brought back to her room when she lost consciousness, and retrieved the next day. In between beatings Tristan looked after the cuts and bruises he inflicted on her. It was a useful method to lure prisoners into talking, by making them want to see their tormenter's calm behaviour instead of the brutal one. After a while they would always talk, just to keep him from switching back.

After her ninth beating Tristan carried the unconscious woman back to her cell. He tended to her bruises.

"Why are you doing this?" her voice croaked. Tristan looked at her face. Her eyes were only half open and she breathed with difficulty. "Just get away from me."

Tristan ignored her and continued cooling the bruises with wet cloths. She was already getting confused from the different ways he treated her.

She gave an annoyed sigh and flinched when it hurt. "I think you cracked my ribs, you miserable bastard."

"Will you let me look at them?"

"Absolutely not. Just go away and leave me be."

"The hurting will be much less if you let me bandage you."

"I thought you wanted me to hurt. Is that not the point of torture?"

"No, the point of torture is to make you talk."

"Of course. And the pain is just an unwanted side-effect." She snorted and turned her face away from him.

He didn't reply, but changed the cloths on her arms and face. Her eyelids grew heavy and soon she sunk into a slumber.

Tristan left quietly. He went to the Hall where the knights were waiting for him. "She still refuses to talk." He lowered himself in his seat.

"We've searched the entire fort. No new residents have come to live 'ere recently. No new maids or kitchen boys, stable boys, nothin'," Bors joined in. "I think she was alone."

"But we still don't know who wants you dead, and that little bitch is tougher than she looks," Lancelot growled angrily.

"She hasn't seen Tristan at his best yet," Bors sniggered. "She'll talk soon."

Arthur looked at his scout.

"I've cracked a few of her ribs. I'm giving her a few days off, before I try something else." Tristan's face was completely blank.

"Why wait?" Gawain hissed.

"Because I don't want to kill her before she talks."

* * *

Anwen was awake the minute she heard the door open again. She expected to see her tormenter, but instead it was another knight. 

"If it isn't the gentle giant," she sneered. "Come to gloat?"

"Tristan asked me to look after your ribs." Dagonet found it difficult to see the battered young girl as the assassin she had shown herself.

He looked at the bruises on her arms and face, knowing that there were more hidden under her dress. Tristan was good at this. Dagonet didn't think he could have done it to her himself, but Tristan had never shown compassion to his enemies.

"Ah yes, the man with two faces. How gallant of him. My ribs are fine. Leave," she ordered him.

"Are you sure you don't want me to bandage him? You'll breathe easier," he said softly, after listening to her shallow and careful breathing.

"So the scout can beat me up some more? Thank you for the offer, but no." She turned her head from him, staring at the wall.

Dagonet sighed and left the cell. The next three days Anwen was alone in her cell most of the day, prisoner to her thoughts. Tristan visited her to bring her food and water, trying to lure her into talking. She exposed him to a variety of curses in several languages. They were the only words coming out of her mouth.

Two days later Gawain and Arthur came for her.


	4. Exposed

**Author's note: **Lots of thanks to Greenday11, Jade Goddess Of Light, Diva Queen and LANCELOTTRISTANBABY for reviewing!

**Warning!** Violence and torture in this chapter. If you feel you might be offended by it, please skip this part. You've been warned.

* * *

**Exposed**

"So, has your pride survived the ordeal?" Anwen asked Gawain lightly. He clenched his jaw, but ignored her. Anwen chuckled at his tense face.

They crossed the short distance to the larger room. Tristan was waiting. Anwen froze when she saw the cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand.

Tristan noticed her widening eyes. For a moment a spark of fear appeared in the green orbs. She blinked and it was gone.

He slowly fingered the whip, keeping his eyes fixed on her. The spark returned. She clenched her jaw and jerked her arm from Gawain's grip. "I'll save you the trouble of trying to scare me," she snarled at Tristan. "I've already seen it. The beating, the kicking, the raping, the whipping, the burning…"

"Seen it or been through it?" Arthur asked.

"None of your damn business! Now get on with it." She held out her wrists. Arthur bound them with a rope and fastened it over her head, making her stand on her toes.

She felt someone stand behind her. "Who ordered you to kill Arthur?" It was Tristan.

"Go to hell, bastard," Anwen hissed with gritting teeth. With one movement he tore her dress from her neck to her waist, leaving her back exposed.

There was a shocked silence as the knights looked upon the silver and pink lining of thick scars across the girl's back.

"Been through it then," Arthur said softly. "Who did this to you, Anwen?"

"It's none of damn business, I said!"

"I won't mind making some more scars, woman," Tristan's cold voice said. "Tell us who gave you the order."

"I think I'll pass. Next question," Anwen wheezed. The pain in her ribs seared through her body, because of the uncomfortable position she was in.

Arthur nodded wearily at Tristan. The woman's body jerked when he lashed out with the whip. She could barely refrain from crying out. Breathing heavily she pressed her forehead against her arm.

Tristan lashed out again, tearing her white skin apart. She groaned.

"Anwen, tell us," Arthur persisted.

"No," she groaned. Blood trickled down her back when Tristan hit her again. This time she screamed.

She lasted long. After the twenty-ninth lash her eyes rolled up in their sockets and she lost consciousness.

"Damn girl," Arthur muttered. "What is she hiding?"

Tristan cast the bloodied whip aside and untied the woman. His face showed a shadow of disgust. Her wrists were raw and bloodied. Gawain helped him take her back to her cell, holding her by the arms. They laid her on her stomach and left.

As usual Tristan returned to tend to the wounds. She woke up for a moment, but was too dazed to say anything. She put her head back down, closing her eyes again.

Tristan cleaned the cuts. He found old brands that appeared to be some mark of possession on her arm and shoulder when he took the upper half of her dress off. He left her after the cuts were bandaged, feeling a sudden need to take a bath. He returned at night to find her burning hot with fever, and still unconscious.

"You're not dying yet, stubborn woman," he told her, drenching cloths in water to cool her off.

Anwen's face contorted in anger and fear, a feverish dream taking hold of her. "No," she moaned, "don't…Anna…help me…kill her…don't..." Anwen curled herself up. "I will…Anna, no…no way out…dad…where are they…Anna…go back."

Tristan listened to the incoherent stream of words, wondering who Anna was. He felt her forehead. It scorched his skin. A layer of sweat covered her face. The dampness and filth of the cell would certainly kill her. He wrapped her in a blanket and lifted her. She groaned, but did not wake.

Tristan walked to his room and put her on his bed. He went to find Dagonet, who was in the Tavern.

"She burns," he said. Dagonet nodded and followed Tristan to his room after gathering his things. Upon seeing the delirious woman, he set to work. He took off the remnants of the dress and ripped one of Tristan's sheets into large cloths, covering her hips with one to preserve some modesty. Tristan handed him a basin filled with water. Dagonet drenched the cloths and placed them all over the woman's body.

She whispered the name of the unknown woman again.

"Who is Anna?" Dagonet asked.

Tristan shrugged. "I don't know."

"Go and find Arthur. If we don't break this fever soon, she will be too weak to survive her wounds."

Tristan nodded and left.

Dagonet turned the girl on her back, though it must hurt her. She suddenly grabbed his wrist, her eyes wide open. "Help us," she whispered.

Dagonet put a cloth on her forehead. "I'll help you. Don't worry."

"No, help Anna. Anna," she urged. He knew she was still in a delirium. Her eyes were unnaturally bright. "She's…help…he…kill…" She put her head on the bed again, fighting to stay conscious.

"Who's Anna?" Dagonet asked softly.

"Anna," the woman choked, "Anna, don't hurt Anna, please…" Tears filled her eyes.

Tristan returned with Arthur. "Damned," Arthur growled when he saw her. "How bad, Dagonet?"

"Very. She's already delirious. She keeps talking about someone named Anna." The huge knight placed a gentle hand on her face. Anwen moaned in response.

She looked at Arthur for a moment, when he sat next to her and changed the cloth on her forehead, but lost the fight to stay awake.

They cooled Anwen's body all through the night, but the fever would not break. The young woman didn't seem to fight. Despite the efforts of the three men she slipped away.

Arthur called a meeting early in the morning. The lack of sleep was evident on his face.

"What's going on?" Lancelot asked worried.

"Anwen is dying from a fever."

"Let her. Good riddance," Bors growled.

"I have a sixteen-year-old girl in my room, who has more whip scars than all of us combined, brand marks on her arm, and a wish to die," Tristan suddenly cut in. "None of you are interested to know why?" The scout got up and left the Hall, leaving the others in a deafening silence.

Galahad's eyebrows went up. "Well, I'm surprised to see even Tristan's lust for blood has limits."

"Galahad!" Arthur snapped.

Galahad backed down.

"Tomorrow we leave to fetch the supply caravan from the coast. I need someone to stay here." Arthur looked round the table, not surprised that Dagonet raised his hand.

"I will stay."

"Thank you, Dagonet. Tell Tristan we leave at dawn."

The knights rose from their seats as Arthur did and went to their rooms to prepare.

Dagonet found Tristan in his room, staring down at the woman. Her lips were moving, as if she were talking to someone only she could see.

Tristan sensed that Dagonet was standing in the doorway, but he didn't move. He looked at the fluttering eyelids and the fast moving eyes under it. Her head sometimes jerked from left to right and back. Whatever demons she was facing in her dreams, they were many.

Man or woman, it didn't matter to him. He did what he had to do to make her talk. When he watched her cold and disdainful face in Arthur's room he felt he would enjoy it, like he usually did.

But the attempts of trying to confuse her into talking, may not have exposed her master, but something of herself. Tristan felt slightly sick when he looked at the bundle of misery on his bed, knowing that what he did to her was probably nothing compared to what was already done to her. A girl that had barely passed childhood. Trained to be a killer, abused, damaged.

"Tristan?" Dagonet asked softly.

Tristan fixed his eyes on him.

"Arthur and the men leave at dawn to meet ahead with the supply caravan. I'm staying here."

Tristan nodded. Dagonet entered the room, saying, "Help me change the cloths." He was surprised the scout lingered around the woman. His victims meant nothing to him.

Though Dagonet fought the raging fever all day and night, it would not subside. When the knights left the fort at dawn, Dagonet had little hope she would live through the next night.

* * *

"No way…out…follow…who's he…" 

Anwen had whispered and moaned all through the night, talking to Anna and other invisible presences. "Stay back…help…no, don't…please…don't. DON'T! NOOOOOOO!"

The screaming began early in the morning. Dagonet had to use force to keep her on the bed. She thrashed around, opening the wounds on her back and hurting her ribs even more.

No more whispered words. All that left her mouth now were agonizing cries. At night she had exhausted herself and succumbed to a deeper sleep. Dagonet stayed by her side, still trying to bring down the temperature.

When the knights returned after three days, Arthur expected the girl to be dead. Instead she was asleep, calmer than she had been when they left her.

"Dag?" Bors whispered, putting a hand on the shoulder of his sleeping friend.

"Hmm?" Dagonet opened his eyes. Arthur, Gawain and Tristan were in the room with Bors.

Gawain walked over to the bed with tentative movements. He looked down at the sleeping woman. Beads of sweat still covered her face and her hair stuck to her forehead and temples.

"She looks so young now," he muttered.

Dagonet put his hand on Anwen's forehead, finding it still hot. "That's because she _is_ young, Gawain," he said.

"How is she?" Arthur asked.

"She barely pulled through the last day, but she is somewhat better now. I think the worst of the fever has passed. It'll break soon."

Tristan placed his weapons on his table. "Get some sleep, Dag. I'll stay here," he said.

Dagonet nodded and got up from the chair. Tristan took his place after he strapped off his armour and coat. Dagonet left with Bors, followed by Arthur.

Gawain lingered. "Will she be hurt again?"

Tristan sighed. "We'll have to if she won't talk."

Gawain clenched his fists and stalked out of the room. Tristan listened to the retreating footsteps. He put his hand on Anwen's forehead. "Just talk, woman."

* * *

It took another day for the fever to break and two more before Anwen woke up. Tristan was cleaning his armour in his chair, when she opened her eyes. "Tristan?" she croaked. 

"Yes?"

She tried to sigh, but flinched because of her sore ribs. "You got me good this time. I don't even remember it."

"It was not my doing. You had a fever."

"Oh." Her eyelids drooped a little. "Is it time already?" She tried to sit up.

"Stay down," Tristan sighed, cringing inwardly that she was willing to undergo more torture.

She rested her head on the pillow, closing her eyes. "My back is killing me. I suppose it's from the whipping?"

"Yes." Tristan put his armour aside, leaning forward. "Anwen?"

"Hmm?"

"The scars on your back… Those are not from an ordinary whipping."

Her eyes snapped open. "What do you mean?" she hissed defensively.

"They were made in a pattern. Someone deliberately tried to disfigure you."

"So? They're just scars."

"They're not. These are just scars." Tristan got up, pulling his shirt over his head and showed her his back. Anwen looked at the clutter of scars on the scout's back, much unlike her own.

"What did you get whipped for?" She sounded curious, Tristan noticed.

He pulled his shirt over his back again.Seating himself again, he smiled slightly. "Apparently Romans don't appreciate their legionaries being beaten up."

Anwen chuckled. "Looks like it took you a while to figure that out."

"Aye, it did. But as I said: I'm only scarred. You're marked."

Anwen peeked under the sheets. "So you found the burns as well, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Can we continue this later, please? I'm tired."

Tristan nodded. "Go to sleep."

* * *

Anwen slept another two days and woke up with a growling stomach. She found Dagonet by her side. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly. 

Anwen smirked. "Like I've been run-over by a contingent of Sarmatian knights. Oh, wait…I have been."

He gave her a reproving look.

"Where am I, by the way? I must say that I like this accommodation better than my old one."

"This is my room," Tristan's voice came from the doorway.

She turned her head to him. "_Your_ room? If I'm in your bed, then where have _you_ been sleeping?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing the black-haired knight carefully.

"Outside."

"Why?"

"I don't mind sleeping outside."

"Right," she said with raised eyebrows at this evasive answer. "Dagonet, will you help me sit up a little?"

Dagonet pulled her into a half-sitting position. Tristan sat on the edge of the bed. "Who's Anna?"

Anwen's eyes widened, giving her the look of a frightened deer. "I don't know anyone with that name," she said, quickly regaining composure.

"You kept calling her name while you were delirious," Tristan persisted, "telling us to help her and not to hurt her. Now who is she?"

Anwen looked at the two knights in fear, a cornered animal searching for an escape.

"Who is Anna?" Tristan asked again.

"She's my sister, if you must know. My elder sister," she finally spat out. She clenched her jaws and looked away from them.

"Anwen," Dagonet said gently, "is she the reason you refuse to talk? Does your master have a hold on her?"

"He is _not_ my master," she hissed at him, "and my sister is dead. She killed herself."

* * *

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	5. Hurt

**Author's note: **Thanks again for the reviews! To Greenday11: you must've been reading my mind, because this is the chapter where she spits it out :)

* * *

**Hurt**

Though she tried to hide it, it was obvious Anwen was upset. Dagonet placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll get you something to eat."

Tristan sat silently on the edge of the bed. Anwen wanted to ignore him, but she had too many questions.

"You feel sorry for me," she suddenly accused.

Tristan said nothing, but stared blankly out of the window.

"Why?" Anwen continued aggressively. "You said you would enjoy my torture."

Tristan looked at her. "I usually do."

"Is it because I'm a woman?" she asked, although he didn't seem the type to let that bother him.

"No, I've made quite a few Woad women talk. If you're willing to take up arms, then you should be willing to bear the consequences. Man or woman."

"I'm willing to bear the consequences. You don't have to pity me. I don't need it."

"Then perhaps it's because you're so willing to let yourself be harmed or killed," Tristan snapped.

Anwen shrugged.

"If you don't consider that man your master, then why do you protect him?"

Anwen said nothing, but Tristan thought she was getting uncomfortable. "You say your sister is dead, he can't hurt her. Is there someone else?"

"No."

"Then why, Anwen? Why do you choose torture?"

Anwen averted her eyes, fidgeting with the sheets.

"Anwen…"

"Isabelle."

Tristan blinked. "What?"

"Isabelle. My name is Isabelle."

He frowned. "That's an unusual name."

She snorted. "Yes, it is."

Tristan was about to ask for a more elaborate explanation when Dagonet came back in, carrying a tray. Anwen, or Isabelle, was soon completely taken up in devouring her food. She spared the scout a quick glance once, but kept her attention to the tray to avoid more questions.

Why she had told him her name, she didn't know. It was a name she hadn't used for years anyway. Maybe it was because of Anna. She never spoke of her. She knew Tristan would pose more questions. The pain from the torture did not concern her. It would not make her talk. And death was only a welcome.

Maybe she could tell him about Anna before she died. Make him understand. So she would know that someone knew about Anna, even if she was dead. It would not change her fate. She would die, by Arthur's hand or _his_ hand. She would be finished when he found out she had messed up. It would be a relief.

She glanced at the scout through her eyelashes, thinking about the part that she could never tell. Not anyone. When Anna had died, Isabelle was the last to know their secret. Summer camp. She and Anna and their brother, Guillaume, had been visiting some caves during their two weeks at camp.

Isabelle still remembered it. How the two sisters and a few other children had lost the guide. The endless shuffling in the dark, trying to find a way out. The immense relief when they had finally seen light and found the way out, parched, dirty, and scared to death.

She also remembered the immediate shock afterwards when they'd realised something had changed. The buses were gone, the restaurant was gone, the souvenir shop was gone. The entire area looked slightly different. The group of children had gingerly made their way down to the valley, where they stumbled upon strange men. Men that killed the boys and took the girls.

Anwen had stopped eating her food. Tristan looked at her grave face. She sighed and caught his gaze.

"I was nine," she began hesitantly, " and Anna was fourteen when we… lost our family. We were in Gaul."

Tristan hid his surprise and kept looking at her.

"We were taken captive by a band of rogue soldiers that found us in a valley with some other children. They hurt us, using us for their pleasure. Anna…let herself be taken by them every night. So that they would not come for me. Instead they took it out on her."

Anwen grinded the piece of bread in her hand to dust without noticing it. "I didn't escape my share of beatings, though. The brands are their work. Two girls died, leaving only Anna, myself, and Claire. One day they caught a village girl. Even today I can only think of the relief she brought Anna, Claire, and me. It took them two weeks to kill her with their abuse. I don't even know her name…"

Her voice faltered slightly. Dagonet sat up straight in the chair, rigid with horror as he heard the story coming from the young woman's mouth.

Anwen blinked. "For some reason they kept us alive. We wandered around for months. Anna got pregnant, but was beaten until she lost the child. The rogues had rampaged around the land for a while, so Roman soldiers came to clear the area not long after. They killed the rogues and sold us to a slave trader. He brought us to Rome."

Tristan sat still as a stone, not wanting to disturb her. Her story was years past, but by the distant look in her eyes he knew she was reliving it now.

"Claudius, the slave trader, kept us for a short time. Claire was sold. I don't know to whom. One day a man came to see us, saying he had a use for us. Claudius sold us to him. It wasn't long until we found out what that use was. Anna was a beautiful girl. She had golden hair, green eyes, a delicate face."

Anwen smiled. "Very unlike me. I was a scrawny infant of barely ten years, with a pale skin and wild and unkempt dark hair. Only our eyes were the same. She used to twist her fingers around a curl, saying that I was the night and she the day and that she would make sure we would always be together."

She lowered her green eyes. "Our buyer Darius took us to his estate, some miles from Rome. There were other young girls and boys there. Slaves, just as us. They were trained to be killers."

"Gladiators?" Dagonet asked softly.

"No, not gladiators. Killers. Assassins. Once their training was completed, they were sold. We never knew to whom. Because of her beauty Anna was trained to be a courtesan as well. It disgusted her, but Darius would hear none of her pleads. He said it would be an asset to her skills. The reason he had bought her in the first place. Her way to come into contact with her victims."

Tristan thought about Gawain.

"I was trained as well. Not to be a courtesan though. Too expensive. Darius would not have even bought me if Claudius hadn't told him I was a 'feisty little child'. I had attacked the caretakers a couple of times. So Darius took me as well and trained me to be an assassin. We were there for five years. Darius accepted orders for a kill sometimes, to test his pupils. One day Anna was sent to prove herself."

Anwen stopped, her breathing suddenly hitching. "The night before she was sent away she told me that she was sorry for not keeping her promise. I didn't understand then. But the next day…instead of killing her victim, she killed herself the minute she was out of the gates. Darius was furious, five years of training wasted. Out of spite he sold me to a cruel man, who brought me to Britain. I changed my name to Anwen. I left the name Isabelle with my sister."

Dagonet looked up in surprise when he heard her say that. A glance at Tristan learned that he already knew.

"Maurus is the one who gave me the whip marks. He took pleasure in breaking and bedding me. After a while I got used to it. Besides the kills he was paid for, he lent me to friends to kill for them and sometimes to pleasure them as a favour. Some were kind, some were not. It mattered naught, it was all the same to me. And then I was sent here."

"So Maurus is the one who gave the order?" Tristan asked.

"No, I am not sure who gave the order. There were a few visitors at the time, but I was not sent to them first. Maurus told me what to do."

There was a knock on the door. "Yes?" Tristan said.

It was Jols. "Arthur requests your presence in the Hall."

* * *

Let me know what you think! 


	6. Explained

**Greenday11: **Thank you! I updated (gasp!) so you will find out... I hope you enjoy.

**June Birdie:** Thanks very much. I hope you like the next chapter!

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**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything from the movie. The characters just play around in my head...

* * *

**Explained**

Tristan and Dagonet left the room, saying they would be back soon. They walked side by side to the Hall, both wrapped up in thoughts.

"Dear gods, who died?" Lancelot joked when he saw their faces.

"Apparently Anwen's sister," Dagonet said with an unusually sharp edge to his voice.

"What?" Several of the knights looked inquiringly at the two.

"She talked," Tristan said, seating himself.

There was a silence.

"Well…" Galahad urged after a while, "aren't you going to tell us?"

Dagonet and Tristan looked at each other.

"It's your success, Tristan. You tell us," Bors chuckled.

Hidden behind his hair Tristan's face flinched slightly at the reference to his success, but he told the story anyway. He watched the reaction of his fellow knights closely. Dagonet was the only calm one, having already heard it. Lancelot's blood drained from his face, Galahad's mouth hung open in horror. Bors sat frozen, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Tristan. Gawain, who had seen the scars on her back, rested his head in his hands. Arthur closed his eyes.

"She said that there were a few visitors that could have ordered your death, but she did not know which one or who they were," Tristan concluded.

Arthur rubbed his hands over his face. He swore, very uncharacteristic for him. How in God's name was he supposed to deal with her?

"Do you know where this Maurus lives, Tristan?" Gawain said.

"Aye, we don't have to get the names from her. We can get them from him," Bors growled.

"I thought you were the most eager to get rid of her," Lancelot said.

Bors placed his hands on the table, spreading his fingers slowly while he scrutinized them. "I have an nine-year-old girl myself, and my eldest daughter will be fourteen next year."

Everybody was silent. They all knew Bors's bastards, looking after them from time to time, teaching them the basics of fighting. No knight liked to think about them in Anwen's place.

"How do we know she's telling the truth?" Galahad said hesitantly.

"The scars on her back," Gawain sighed heavily. "They are unlike anything I've ever seen…"

"She's telling the truth," Dagonet cut in.

"Arthur, what are you going to do?" Lancelot asked.

Arthur sighed. "Ask her where Maurus lives, so we can put an end to all this."

"She won't tell," Tristan intervened. "For some reason she rather lets herself be tortured than save herself."

"She told us this much. She'll tell us more," Lancelot said.

"Trust me, she won't. She simply does not care," Dagonet said.

"She said that it didn't matter if she died by Maurus's hand or yours," Tristan added.

"You think he will send someone to kill her then?" Gawain asked.

"Probably. If he finds out she has failed. So she won't spill his secrets," Galahad pondered.

"I asked her once: why protect him if you don't care for him? She said she does not care for you either, why help you?" Tristan said.

Arthur stared at his scout. "Do you think we can make a deal with her? Give her a reason to help me? Maurus's whereabouts in exchange for protection?"

Tristan shrugged. "You can try."

"I do not want to put her back in that cell," Arthur said to himself, stressing each word.

"Nor do we," Lancelot assured his commander. His face showed the guilt he felt.

"You should try and talk to her, Tristan. She seems to trust you."

The others turned their heads to Dagonet in surprise.

"You must be joking!" Galahad sputtered bewildered. "Why would she trust him? He's the one that beat it out of her."

Tristan narrowed his eyes at the youngest knight, but kept his mouth shut.

"We'll discuss the workings of the female mind later, Galahad," Arthur sighed. "Talk to her, will you Tristan? I'll see you all tomorrow, knights." The reason he had summoned his knights had completely slipped from him.

Tristan nodded and left the Hall. He found her sound asleep. She had turned herself on her stomach. Her long, tangled hair spread out over her back. Tristan moved around quietly, before he settled in his chair.

At night Gawain brought him dinner. "How is she?" he mumbled softly, looking at the girl, who was hugging her pillow tightly in her sleep.

"Sleeps a lot."

"That's good."

"Aye."

"Well, er…I'm off," Gawain spoke uncomfortably. "Goodnight."

"Night."

Tristan only noticed he had dozed off when he was awoken by a loud scream tearing through the night. Instinctively he reached for his weapons and turned to the nearest danger: the door.

No one. He spun around. No one at the window either. Then he heard a muffled laugh behind him. He turned around.

Anwen was looking at him, amusement twinkling in her eyes. "Nice reflexes," she said. "Very impressive."

Tristan was stopped from answering when the door burst open and Lancelot, Gawain, and Galahad stormed inside, swords drawn.

"WHERE IS HE?" Galahad bellowed.

"Who?" Anwen asked bemused. "Look, not that I don't appreciate the parade of displayed male flesh…" she said, raising an eyebrow at the knights, all in various states of undress, "...but I merely had a nightmare." She chuckled.

"Oh," Galahad said, folding his arms over his naked chest. "Then we...er…we'll just go, right?" He looked at Gawain for confirmation.

"Er…yes. Go…" Gawain's answer was. "Goodnight, then."

They turned around and exited, followed by Lancelot, who was shaking his head in mirth.

Anwen stifled her laughter. "You can put the sword down now, Tristan. No evils here," she smirked, "besides myself, of course."

Tristan sheathed his sword and sat in the chair again. "What was your dream about?"

Her smirk faded. "Anna."

"Does it happen a lot?"

Anwen shrugged. "I suppose, but never as bad as this one. Maybe because I talked about her earlier. I haven't done that in a long time."

"We're both awake now, so I want to talk to you. I've spoken to Arthur. He wants to make a deal with you. He will let you live and protect you, if you tell him where Maurus lives."

Anwen shook her head. "No."

"Why not? You're aware that it is important that we know who planned the attack, aren't you?"

"Of course I know that."

"Then why not take the offer? We will protect you from Maurus."

"Is that what you think worries me? I don't care what Maurus does to me, or you, or Arthur."

"Why are you doing this, Anwen? I do not want to take you back to that cell, but if you don't tell us what we need to know, I may not have a choice."

Anwen smiled sadly. "Then take me back there. It's my choice, you don't have to regret it."

"That's not for you to decide," Tristan snapped. He leaned back in the chair, feeling increasingly frustrated with the stubborn girl. "Damn it, woman, why do you insist on torture?"

Anwen looked away from him.

"Tell me."

She ignored him.

"Anwen?"

No answer.

"Isabelle? Why are you doing this?"

She shuddered slightly when he used that name and he jumped on it.

"Tell me, Isabelle."

"No. Go away."

"I'm not going anywhere. Tell me."

"Leave me alone." Her voice was strangled.

"Isabelle…"

"No."

"Tell me. Isabelle, if you don't tell me, I will…"

"Because I need it," she suddenly snarled, jerking her head to face him. "I need the pain."

"What?" Tristan breathed, taken aback.

"The pain…I need it. I need to feel it. You think you hurt me, but you just gave me what I wanted."

Tristan stared at her, at a loss for words. "Why?" he finally managed to say.

She hesitated.

"Why do you seek pain? Because it makes you feel alive?"

"No," she growled, "it's the fact that I'm still alive that makes me long for pain. I deserve it."

"I don't understand."

Isabelle surveyed the dark knight. "My sister killed herself because she would not lead this life. I should have followed her, but I was too weak. Countless times I have stood with a knife at my wrists, failing to go through with it every time."

"Isabelle…"

"I am not as strong as my sister. I can't put an end to it myself. I'm just waiting for someone to do it for me."

"And in the mean time you let yourself be punished," Tristan said, following her reasoning.

"Yes."

Tristan shook his head. "You don't want to die."

"What! Don't presume you know a thing about me," she growled indignantly.

"Don't I? You tell me then, if you don't care about anything, why you don't like Maurus being called your master?"

"He is not my…" she began angrily, but stopped. She looked at the man in the chair, who awaited her answer calmly. "Because if I let him be called my master, I would let him _be_ my master."

"And you don't want that."

"No."

"You're not weak, Isabelle," Tristan said, his voice unusually gentle. "Not at all."

Isabelle blinked, appalled that her vision was getting blurred. "You don't understand, Tristan. I am weak. What kind of person would allow the things to happen that I have?"

"Someone who wants to live."

"No, I don't."

"You did what you had to do to survive. There is no wrong in that."

"It was not just survival. I like to kill. I like watching people bleed to death, or gasp for air when I've slit their throat. I watch them as they beg and cry, and shake with fear…"

"So you know what it is to lust for blood. Everybody here knows as well, with the exception of Galahad perhaps."

"It's horrible."

"It's not. No one blames you for taking out your anger on others."

Isabelle shook her head in denial. Tristan leaned forward again. "Isabelle, listen. Whatever you told yourself, you do not have a death wish. That is why you can't kill yourself. Not because you're weak, but because you don't want to die."

Isabelle stared blankly at him.

"That is why you didn't plunge yourself into Arthur's sword when he held it at your throat. That is why you've survived your life until now."

Tristan studied her carefully. He thought he saw a spark of doubt, but wasn't sure. She sighed. "I appreciate the effort, Tristan…" With a faint smile she added, "I know you're not a man of many words, but when Maurus finds out I have failed, he will kill me anyway."

"Not if you stay here. If you tell us where we can find him, we will take care of him. After that you'll be free."

There it was. Now he was sure of it. A flicker of doubt. And of hope.

Tristan gave her a smile. "Now get back to sleep. You need it. And think about it."

* * *

Well? 


	7. Decision

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* * *

**Decision**

Isabelle slid back under the blankets. She looked at Tristan for a moment, before she closed her eyes. The rest of the night she slept relatively peacefully.

When she woke up in the morning, Tristan had already left. Isabelle pulled herself up a little, pondering about last night's events. She could not get Tristan's comments out of her head. She wasn't sure whether he was right. Her whole being protested against the possibility, but still… there was a tiny part inside of her that was uncertain.

She looked out the window for a long time, her body still, but her mind in turmoil.

"Anna…" she whispered and closed her eyes, "forgive me." Isabelle threw the sheets off her, looking at her skinny body. She had lost some weight. She only wore the bandages around her chest. "Oh, that is just wonderful," she groaned.

Carefully she tried to sit up straight. When she didn't feel dizzy, she slipped her legs over the edge of the bed and draped a sheet around her. Feeling a bit light-headed she waited a few minutes.

"Okay, step two," she mumbled, and slowly got to her feet. Swaying dangerously she walked over to the table, holding on to the edge. The black spots cleared from her vision after a while.

"Step three: clothes," Isabelle talked to herself. "Where does that bloody scout keep his clothes?"

"In that chest," a deep voice said behind her. She turned to look at the owner of the voice. "Why do you want my clothes and why are you out of bed?" Tristan inquired, leaning against the doorpost with folded arms.

"I need to speak with Arthur, and I need clothes to do so. To get clothes I needed to get out of bed."

"Get back in bed. Now."

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. "And exactly how many women have you had to tell that?"

Tristan was unable to repress a snort. "You're feeling better I presume?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. The insults have returned."

Isabelle grinned. "At your service, sir."

"Do you need help getting back to bed?"

"No, I can do it." She let go of the table and took a few steps to the bed. "See? I'm perfectly f…whoa!"

Tristan caught her before she fell over. "Come on, enough walking for today," he said and helped her to the bed. She sat on the edge. "I'll go and find Arthur for you." He turned away, but she stopped him.

"I am feeling better," she said. "Really. And I need to get out of this room. Please?"

Tristan sighed. "I'll get Dagonet. If he says you're well enough, I will take you to Arthur."

Isabelle smiled. "Thanks."

Tristan smiled back and left the room, but couldn't help muttering, "Mule," as he turned left in the hallway.

Isabelle sniggered at his comment, but didn't reply. For some reason she felt better. Different. She waited impatiently for Dagonet.

They returned shortly. Tristan had informed him of Isabelle's morning adventure across the room, and Dagonet quickly searched for signs of returning fever. Fortunately, her skin was cool and dry.

"I want to check your back," he said. "On your stomach, Anw...Isabelle."

Isabelle smiled and did as he asked. Dagonet cut the bandages open, revealing the raw mess of skin. "Well, it looks like it's healing properly," he mumbled, letting his fingers push the skin here and there. "The cuts are closed. No infection. I think we can leave the bandages off."

"Good, this means I can leave the room, can't I?" Isabelle asked in an eager tone.

"For a short time only. Then it's back to bed," Dagonet answered in a stern voice. "I'll have a maid draw you a bath first."

"Well, thank you for your flattery," Isabelle huffed. Dagonet smiled and went to find a maid.

Isabelle fumbled with the sheets, trying to sit up and cover herself at the same time. Tristan raised his eyebrows. "What are you doing now?"

"Getting up in a decent way," she answered.

"Don't bother. I helped breaking the fever. I know what's under the sheets."

"Oh, right," she said, "but I was unconscious. That's different." She managed to wrap the sheet around her chest and sat up, ignoring the roll of Tristan's eyes.

"What are you going to tell Arthur?"

Isabelle took a deep breath. "I'm going to tell him where he can find Maurus."

"I'm glad about that."

Dagonet walked back in, carrying a hip bath. A trail of servants in his wake carried buckets with warm water. A maid lingered in the room after the bath was filled.

"This is Celia. She'll help you," Dagonet said. He left the room with Tristan, who said, "I'll wait outside."

Celia closed the door behind the knights. "Come on, lady," she said briskly. "Lets get you cleaned up." She walked to Isabelle and helped her to her feet, losing the sheet on the way to the bath.

Isabelle sharply sucked in her breath through her teeth, when the warm water stung her back.

"My, my, what happened to you?" Celia said shocked.

"Minor disagreement," Isabelle answered, gritting her teeth.

"You poor thing." Celia poured a jug of warm water over Isabelle's head and started to wash her hair. Isabelle leaned into the relaxing treatment. After her hair was washed, Celia poured a sweet-scenting oil in the water.

It took a long time to disentangle Isabelle's hair, but finally it hung over her shoulders and back like a dark brown cloak.

Isabelle scrubbed herself clean, wincing when she rubbed over half-healed bruises. Celia was very careful with her back, but it still hurt like hell.

"Now let's get you dried off," Celia said. Isabelle clung to her as she tried to stand in the bath. They chuckled.

"I'm as weak as a baby," Isabelle said distastefully.

"It's just from the fever. It'll pass," Celia soothed. "Just hold on to me." Isabelle stepped out of the bath and dried herself with Celia's help.

"Now, onto the bed for a moment. I have a salve for those cuts to make them heal faster. Won't help the scars though."

Isabelle lowered herself on the bed. "My back wasn't much to begin with anyway."

Celia massaged the ointment softly into Isabelle's skin until it was soaked in. "Now clothes."

"I don't have any clothes here," Isabelle said.

"Oh, well, just a minute." Celia walked to the door and stuck her head outside, talking to the knight outside. After a minute she drew her head back and closed the door.

"He says you can use a shirt and trousers of his." Celia fumbled about in the chest. She held up a shirt. "It's not a very good fit, but at least it won't hurt your back when it's a little loose."

'A little loose' was an understatement. The dark green shirt was much too large and hung around Isabelle's body like a tent. Celia searched for a pair of trousers. The two women had to turn up the legs of the trousers several times so Isabelle would be able to walk.

Celia looked for Isabelle's shoes in the room and found them in a corner. She helped Isabelle put them on and opened the door for Tristan. "She's finished."

Tristan stepped inside. "You ready?"

"Aye."

"Wait!" Celia exclaimed. "Your hair!"

Isabelle's hands flew to her head. "What about it?"

"I have to braid it. It's still wet, and it will soak your back." She immediately went to work, Isabelle and Tristan both waiting impatiently. Celia tied the loose braid with a ribbon and flipped it over Isabelle's shoulder. "Done."

"Thank you, Celia," Isabelle said earnestly. She got to her feet. Tristan tried to lift her in his arms, but she protested. "No, no, I want to walk a bit."

With a slightly exasperated look on his face, he offered her his arm instead. She hung on to it. Slowly they walked out of the room. They had to stop several times for Tristan to turn up Isabelle's trousers again, so she wouldn't trip, while she leaned on his shoulder to remain standing.

"They're a bit big," Isabelle apologized.

Tristan stood up straight again, looking down at the woman who failed to reach past his shoulder. Raising an eyebrow he said, "I would not have guessed."

Isabelle snorted.

Arthur was in his quarters. He looked up in surprise when the strange duo entered. "Anwen… I mean, Isabelle. Have a seat."

Tristan helped her to a seat. Arthur gave the nervous girl a friendly smile. Seeing her sit across him, freshly bathed and swimming in her clothes, she looked nothing like the cold and arrogant woman he had fought weeks earlier in the same room.

"I take it Tristan told you about my offer?" he asked gently.

"Yes." Isabelle took a deep breath. "I accept. Maurus owns an estate twelve miles east of Lindum. He is the bastard son of a Roman nobleman. Therefore he is not part of upper-class society, but they know where to find him when they need someone taken care of. Maurus has a wide range of acquaintances. The men that were at the estate when he gave me the order to kill you, I had never seen before. I caught a few glimpses of them when I sneaked around."

Arthur rested his chin on his hands. "Thank you. You'll be well-protected here, I assure you. And my shoulder has healed properly, so no harm done."

Isabelle nodded, not feeling at ease under his kind gaze.

"Welcome to Hadrian's Wall," Arthur said, an ironic smile on his face.

* * *

Several minutes later Arthur watched the two leave his quarters, the woman clinging to his scout. 

Outside Isabelle tripped over the trousers. Tristan staggered, trying to keep her on her feet. "Goddamned trousers," Isabelle snapped.

"Enough," Tristan said. "I'm carrying you back."

"No. You can't carry me. You'll hurt my back."

Tristan sighed. She was right.

"Can we go outside for a moment? I need some fresh air." She looked pleadingly up to him.

"This way."

As Isabelle tried to control her wobbly legs, she thought about the quiet scout. She didn't understand why she was comfortable with him. She had been dead afraid of him the night in Arthur's room and afterwards. But she had sensed him in her feverish dreams. He was there.

She had seen through his mind game in the cell, but that didn't explain why he stayed with her during her fever. Somehow something had changed and she had told him about her past. It was a confession, of some sort. What happened next, she had not expected. The way he plainly denied her wish to die; it had caught her completely off-guard. She still wasn't sure whether she had made the right decision.

Isabelle blinked when the bright sunlight hit her eyes. Tristan stopped at a bench in the courtyard. "Sit down. Have you had breakfast?"

"No. I'm starving."

Tristan whistled sharply at a young boy that came running to them immediately. Isabelle recognized him as one of Vanora's children. "Gilly, will you get some food from the kitchens for us?" Tristan asked while he sat next to Isabelle.

"What's in it for me?" the boy asked slyly.

Tristan snorted. "A true son of his father. I will tell you where your mother hides the honey," he said, his eyes unexpectedly filling with amusement.

"Done," Gilly said excitedly and ran away.

"And how would you know where Vanora hides the honey?" Isabelle asked indignantly, for a moment back in her role as barmaid.

"I pay attention," Tristan smirked, stretching his long legs in front of him.

Isabelle shook her head in bemusement, catching Bors's look. He walked sturdily over to them. "So Gilly was right. You're out of bed."

"Yes," Isabelle said, unsure of him.

Bors extended his hand. "Nice to meet ye, Isabelle."

Isabelle blinked in confusion. "We've already met, Bors."

"Nah, I know Anwen. Isabelle, I have never met before."

Isabelle chuckled and grasped Bors's hand. "Then it's a pleasure to meet you too."

Soon the other knights found her as well. Lancelot sat on her other side. "Isabelle, I wanted to apologize for calling you a whore. It was a horrible thing to say, given the circumstances." He looked guiltily in her eyes.

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. "Well, since you didn't know about the circumstances I hardly think that's necessary, but if you insist," she cut him off when he began to protest, "I suppose I will apologize for trying to kill your commander."

The knights laughed. "Don't fret over it, lass," Bors chuckled. "We all have that urge sometimes." A round of agreeing sounds came from his fellow knights.

"And er…" she looked at Gawain, "I should apologize to you too."

Gawain shrugged. "No matter, Isabelle. I'm just grateful you didn't cut my throat in my sleep," he winked.

"Yes, I've been wanting to talk to you about that," Galahad said sternly. "Why didn't you? You would have saved us from his annoying existence." Ducking a cuff from his friend, he grinned, "Although the blow to his ego was quite satisfying to watch too."

"So, we have to protect you now," Bors said after they had stopped laughing at Gawain.

"I suppose," Isabelle said uneasily. "Maurus will soon realise something has gone wrong."

"We'll take care of him," Lancelot said and continued more lightly, "So, what are you going to do now you're free?"

"Haven't thought about it yet," she pondered. "I don't know." Her face fell and she stared at her hands.

"Must be difficult to continue living after focussing on your death," Tristan said softly. Isabelle looked at him, relieved that he understood. "It'll take a while to adjust."

Isabelle smiled. "I actually liked working in the Tavern."

"What? You liked the annoying men? Lancelot and Galahad?" Bors rumbled incredulously.

"Pfff, I can handle them," Isabelle said, a sudden fire lighting her features, "but I meant that I liked the Tavern. The light, the music, the laughter…"

"Surely you liked us as well?" Lancelot grinned, trying his puppy-face on the girl.

"You're not that bad," Isabelle admitted grudgingly. Lancelot looked very pleased with himself, until Isabelle drawled, "When you're at least ten foot away from me."

Lancelot took the pun good-heartedly. "If you can handle me, you can handle everyone," he laughed.

Gilly made another appearance, handing a loaf of bread and fruit to Tristan. He lingered, nearly bouncing up and down in expectation. Isabelle couldn't help smiling at his eager face. Tristan gave her the food and leaned forward. Gilly took another step closer. "Well…" he whispered.

Tristan whispered something in his ear and leaned back, looking rather smug.

"No!" Gilly breathed. "Really?"

Tristan nodded.

"Wait till I tell Wynn," Gilly squeaked and ran off.

"What was that?" Bors inquired.

"He just told your son where he can find Vanora's honey," Isabelle said, throwing Tristan a disapproving look.

Bors's jaw dropped. So did the others'. "You know where she hides it?" Galahad asked incredulously.

"Aye," Tristan said.

Isabelle rolled her eyes at the self-satisfied grin Tristan wore. "Why did you not tell us?" Galahad continued indignantly. "I like honey."

"No, you like the mead where she puts it in," Gawain corrected his friend.

"All the same," Galahad dismissed the comment. He folded his arms and stared down at Tristan. "Speak up," he ordered.

Tristan ignored him, taking an apple from Isabelle. "You know how to handle children," she said, looking at Gilly, who just disappeared inside a building with another boy. There was a distinct note of surprise to her voice.

"Galahad is not so bad," Tristan replied. The knights burst out laughing at the youngest knight's flustered face.

"Aye, you're right lass," Bors chuckled. "Although we still don't know if it's because they like him, or because he scares the wits out of 'm."

Tristan watched the woman next to him. She seemed a little more at ease because of the knights' friendliness. This girl was not who they were after. She had followed orders, and they were all too familiar with that themselves. They knew they were very fortunate with a commander like Arthur.

Isabelle leaned back with her head against the wall, a slight smile on her lips as she listened to the banter of the knights. She was surprised how tired she feeling again and yawned. Quickly she clasped her hand in front of her mouth, but Dagonet had already noticed.

"Bed," he ordered. She was too tired to protest and simply got to her feet, gripping Tristan's shoulder when she almost toppled over. He got to his feet himself and held her steady.

"Bye," she said and staggered away with Tristan.

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "Aren't they on surprisingly friendly terms…", he drawled, "taken in consideration that he's the reason she is in such a mess?"

Bors shrugged. "Let 'em. Better this than havin' to worry about some revenge action on our dearest and only scout. Lads, I'm goin' to talk to Gilly about that honey."

The knights laughed and went back to their chores.

* * *

Isabelle passed out halfway back to her bed. Thinking very unpleasant things about stubborn women Tristan lifted her limp body in his arms, keeping clear from her back as much as he could. He laid her on her stomach, took off her shoes, and left for a day of scouting the woods to clear his head. 

Isabelle woke up at night to find Gawain in a chair beside her bed. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly.

"I'm fine," she croaked, propping herself up on her elbows to rub the sleep from her eyes. She rolled on her side. "What are you doing here?"

"I…er…wanted to ask you something," Gawain said, resting his elbows on his knees to lean forward.

"What?"

"It's been bothering me since Tristan told us your story." He looked her in the eye. "You must think very lowly of men. And I for one can't blame you. It's just that it worried me when I took you to my bed… I made you do something you probably hate," Gawain blurted out, looking at his hands now.

Isabelle laughed softly, touched by his concern. Gawain's head shot up and he gave her an offended look. "Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing at you," she soothed. "I think it's very kind of you to be worried about me. There was one man, that Maurus sent me to, that showed me something other than Maurus's cruelty. He became fond of me and I liked him too. Until Maurus found out and had him killed by one of his other assassins. But, Gawain, I know what it should be like between a man and a woman. And you needn't worry; you didn't make me do anything I hate."

She reached out and touched his hand for a moment. "I chose to go to your room, didn't I?"

"Aye, but that was because…"

"Gawain, you didn't hurt me in any way. Now stop fussing over it," she said a little more sternly.

"Are you sure?"

"Aye, I'm sure. Now tell me how bad they've been teasing you with it," Isabelle smirked.

Gawain groaned. "Galahad has never been happier in his life, nor has Lancelot. Couldn't you have picked one of them - I mean, not that I didn't enjoy that night, because I did…very much - forgive me, that was…"

"Gawain!" Isabelle exclaimed exasperatedly. "Shut up, will you? I picked the one I thought was most attractive, before turning to…other affairs."

Gawain closed his mouth, which had been ready to protest. "Really?" he asked instead.

"Aye," Isabelle sighed, "really."

Gawain leaned back in the chair, looking pleased. "I feel much better now," he commented. Isabelle just cast her eyes heavenwards.


	8. Recovery

**Greenday11: **Yay! Such a lovely review. Sorry you had to wait so long. I hope it's worth it :)

**dellis: **Children are a lot more perceptive than adults, aren't they? I think Tristan has a good sense of right and wrong, and the people that are on his 'wrong' side (woads and stuff, Anwen-the-assassin) ...they should really just stay away from him.

**BornWithAFever: **Thank you! More interaction on its way... I hope you like it!

**Morwen: **Here's the update!

* * *

**Recovery**

Dagonet made Isabelle stay in bed for a week. Having a distinct idea of what she thought of that, Tristan stayed clear of his room the entire week. However, he needed to change clothes eventually.

"Traitor," Isabelle immediately hissed at Tristan when he walked in his room. "You told him I passed out."

Tristan ignored the stewing woman in his bed and lowered himself in his chair.

"I want to get out of this bed," Isabelle said, gritting her teeth and glaring at the knight.

"Talk to Dagonet."

"He won't listen."

"Nor will I."

Isabelle gave a thoroughly annoyed grunt and rolled over in the bed, turning her back on Tristan. The man was just impossible. She was going mad in this room.

Dagonet chose to enter that very moment. "How are you feeling, Isabelle?"

Isabelle rolled over, grabbed the boot that Tristan had just taken off and threw it at Dagonet. It hit him square in the chest. "If you don't let me out of this bed, I swear I will flay you alive!" she screamed.

Dagonet blinked and looked at his fellow knight for an explanation. Tristan's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. He just shrugged.

"Shut up," Isabelle growled at him. Tristan's eyebrows went up.

"I can hear you thinking."

Tristan got up from his chair, retrieved his boot, and left, muttering, "You deal with her."

"Bastard!" Isabelle yelled after him.

Lancelot poked his head around the door. "Trouble?"

"Get out!" Isabelle screamed, searching for another throwing object. Unfortunately there were none, so she settled for glares.

"Dag?" Lancelot inquired.

Dagonet folded his arms, looking down on the now fuming girl. "She wants to get out of bed. I told her no."

"I. Am. Fine," Isabelle snapped.

"Gods, let her get out of bed. If she passes out again, we'll just let her lie there until she comes to her senses." Lancelot rolled his eyes.

"Not a bad idea," Dagonet pondered.

Isabelle immediately sat up straight and moved to the edge of the bed. Flinging her legs over the side she said, "And I am going back to my old room near the Tavern. I've had enough of that bloody scout."

"Good," Tristan's voice came from the hallway. "I will enjoy some quiet in my room instead of the shrieks of a witch."

"Get me a knife. I'm going to kill him," Isabelle hissed.

"I thought you two got along?" Lancelot asked.

Isabelle scoffed. "My mind was still clouded from the fever."

"You are not going back to your old room," Dagonet said. "We can't protect you there. But there are some spare rooms here. There is one between mine and Gawain's. I'll have someone bring your things there."

Isabelle calmed down a little. "Thank you." She raised an eyebrow. "Now, about that knife…"

"Isabelle…" Lancelot warned her.

"Sorry," she sighed. "I just - I'm going mad in here and my back is driving me to insanity."

"Which explains the foul temper," Lancelot grinned.

"You would be in a mood too if you were locked up in here," Isabelle growled.

"If you promise to get rid of the scowl, I will take you out," Lancelot said.

"Agreed," Isabelle said and raised her voice, "I'm glad there are _some_ people I can reason with."

A derisive huff came from the hallway and the sound of footsteps stalking off. Lancelot clicked his tongue disapprovingly at Isabelle.

"Fine, I'll talk to him later, when I don't feel so much inclined to grind his stoic skull to dust."

Lancelot chuckled. "Get dressed. I'll take you to the training grounds. You can sit there and make admiring sounds while we show off."

Dagonet sighed in resignation. "If you don't feel well, come and see me straight away, Isabelle."

"I will." Isabelle got to her feet and was delighted she wasn't dizzy at all. "Damn it, I only have those clothes I got from Tristan."

"They'll have to do," Lancelot said. "I'll wait outside." Dagonet followed Lancelot out of the room, leaving Isabelle to herself.

Isabelle felt slightly guilty about Tristan. After all, he let her stay in his room and lent her his clothes. She snorted. Though she wouldn't have to if he hadn't beaten her half to death. Although she had tried to kill Arthur.

Isabelle gave an irritated sigh, deciding she would seek him out to thank him for letting her stay and then be done with the infuriating scout.

She dressed quickly and went to the training grounds with Lancelot. By the time they got there, she felt woozy, so she sat down and did as Lancelot told her: making admiring sounds at the knights, who were all present.

Galahad and Bors gave her a befuddled look. Isabelle shrugged. "He told me to," she said, pointing at Lancelot.

Bors rolled his eyes. "No surprises there," he grumbled. Galahad sniggered and challenged Bors to a fight. Watching the two fight made Isabelle's hands ache for a weapon. Fighting was all she knew; her life before the caves, as she and Anna had called it, had been thoroughly pushed away.

Lancelot plonked on the ground next to her. "Enjoying yourself?" he panted. Fighting Dagonet was no easy thing.

"Yes," she said, fingering the dagger Lancelot kept in his boot, "although I wish I was well enough to join you." She grabbed the dagger and twirled it between her fingers.

"You lettin' her have weapons already, Lance?" Bors bellowed, his sword on Galahad's neck.

Lancelot got back to his feet and slapped Bors's back. "Of course, I would love to watch her teach you a lesson, friend," he grinned.

"As would I," Galahad sighed, pushing the tip of Bors's sword away.

"What do you say, Bors?" Isabelle called out. "When I'm fully recovered, shall I teach you a little lesson?"

Bors gave her an incredulous look. "Are you joking, lass? If I bloody sneeze at you, you'll fly over the Wall!"

The knights burst out laughing at Isabelle's offended snort.

"Oi, Isabelle," Gawain yelled from across the training grounds and strolled towards her. "You must be very good with a blade if you could stab Arthur while he was awake and had Excalibur at his hand. There aren't many who accomplish that."

Isabelle gave him a cocky grin. "Thank you, I know."

"Not good enough," Tristan mumbled. Forgetting about her earlier, pacifying thoughts she glared lethally at him. Tristan glared back.

"Something wrong?" Galahad chuckled.

Lancelot gave him a sly grin. "Lovers' quarrel." He jumped back in shock when two daggers landed a mere inch from his feet. Lancelot looked from the quivering daggers in the ground to the dangerous glint in both Tristan's and Isabelle's eyes. He quickly raised his hands. "I meant nothing by it."

"Good," Isabelle growled. "I would hate to break your pretty face." Bors roared with laughter, breaking the tension between the two men and woman.

"You in for a round of throwing daggers tonight?" Gawain asked.

"You sure you can handle losing?" Isabelle retorted.

"We'll see about that," Gawain drawled challengingly.

The knights spent the day in the training court. Tristan practised his bow for a while, glancing at Isabelle every now and then. He understood she wanted to get out of the room. He was an intolerable patient himself when he was injured, as Dagonet had told him many times. But for the sake of the gods, he did not understand why he reacted so strongly to her.

Grudgingly he decided that he should say something to smoothen things. He was the one that told Dagonet, after all. But she was the one that insisted on going outside. Although she wouldn't have passed out if he hadn't whipped her.

"Ugh," he grunted and turned his attention to his target. He would speak to her tonight. First he needed to calm down, he judged and subsequently shot the target full of arrows. It helped.

* * *

After dinner, Isabelle brought her possessions from her old room to the one Dagonet had offered her. Her weapons were kept in Tristan's room. Isabelle knew there was not enough trust for her to be allowed to carry her weapons. 

Being used to wearing trousers and tunics, she only owned two dresses, one of which she had bought here. She put that one on, since the other had been ripped apart by Tristan.

She combed through her hair and slipped back in her shoes. There was a knock on the door and Gawain stuck his head inside. "You ready?"

"Almost. Are you that eager to be beaten by a girl?"

"Challenging me, are you?" he grinned. Isabelle chuckled and walked outside. At the Tavern Gawain led her to the pole where the knights always played their games. One of them had attached the remnants of a stool to it in a burst of creativity, its seat now used as target.

Lancelot left his place at a table and tossed Isabelle his dagger. "Let's see you humiliate Gawain."

"I have my own daggers, but I think I'll keep this one. It's pretty," Isabelle grinned slyly, admiring the carved hilt.

"Or course it's pretty," Lancelot said. "It's Sarmatian."

"Well, that doesn't explain you then," Isabelle pondered.

Gawain's laughter caught Galahad's attention and he untied himself from the wench on his lap and sauntered over. "I thought being embarrassed by Isabelle once would be enough for you," he said.

Gawain puffed out his chest and said pompously, "Isabelle and I have reached an understanding about that."

Isabelle snorted. "Let's just get started, shall we? Best of three throws and the loser buys the winner a drink."

"As you wish, milady," Gawain bowed.

Isabelle blinked. "Are you drunk?"

"No. Well, not yet. Why?"

"Then stop calling me a lady. You're scaring me."

Lancelot chuckled.

"Look, if no one is going to throw, I'm going back to Alana," Galahad sighed.

"Fine," Isabelle said and casually threw Lancelot's dagger. It hit the centre of the stool.

"Not bad," Galahad said impressed. Gawain stepped in place and aimed. His dagger soared towards the target and landed with a loud thud in the wood. It was only half an inch further from the centre as Isabelle's throw.

"That's one for me," Isabelle smiled while she retrieved the daggers. "I hope you've brought a lot of money, knight."

"You haven't won yet, girl," Gawain growled. He threw first this time and it was another good throw. However, Isabelle's was slightly closer again.

"I think I shall have a mug of wine, please," Isabelle grinned. Gawain left for the bar, shaking his head. Isabelle looked at Galahad and Lancelot. "Anymore of you that want to buy me a drink?"

Galahad took the challenge. Six throws later he walked to the bar with a scowl on his face, meeting his friend on the way.

"You, Lancelot?" Isabelle smiled and accepted the mug from Gawain.

"No, thank you," the knight grinned.

"Too bad," Isabelle grinned back and sat on a bench to enjoy her wine. Bors strolled by and sat at the table, holding one of his many children.

Galahad returned with a second mug for her and asked, "How did you learn to throw like that?"

"I've practised since I was with Darius. You learn fast when there's somebody behind you to strike you with a piece of wood when you do it wrong."

Galahad looked shocked for a moment, but sat down anyway. He raised his eyebrows. "Maybe we should've done that with Bors. He can't throw a dagger to save his life."

"He's right," Bors rumbled. "Never could throw a dagger straight. Can't piss straight either. It's just too much to handle down there. It's like a…"

"…a baby's arm holding an apple," Gawain, Galahad and Lancelot finished exasperatedly.

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. "I take it he says that a lot?"

"Every day," Galahad groaned. He caught sight of Alana and jumped to his feet. "If you'll excuse me…"

"Come on, Isabelle. I want a chance to redeem myself," Gawain insisted.

"I don't see how losing twice redeems yourself."

"Ha ha, very funny," he muttered, but his eyes twinkled. Isabelle got to her feet at Gawain's inviting gesture. When she was about to throw, he pinched her side. The knife landed on the edge of the stool.

"You cheating bastard," Isabelle shouted.

Gawain laughed. "I think I can beat that," he said smugly and hit the middle of the stool. Suddenly another dagger flew past his head and embedded itself in the hilt of Gawain's dagger. Without turning around Gawain sighed, "Damn it, Tristan, you know that's not funny."

"It is," Tristan's deep voice said. Isabelle turned around and folded her arms. "Come," Tristan commanded and walked to a corner of the Tavern.

Isabelle huffed. "Come? Whatever happened to: please step aside with me for a moment so I can humbly beg your forgiveness on my knees?" His voice lacked the anger it had in the afternoon, however, so she followed him, grumbling along the way.

Lancelot looked at Gawain. "If that is the real Isabelle that we finally get to see, I am staying away. What happened to all the women that are soft and sweet and that sigh when they see you? Gods, as if one Vanora in the fort wasn't enough. The world is coming to an end, I'm telling you."

"You done ranting?" Gawain asked dryly.

"Don't talk about my Vanora like that, or we'll take it outside," Bors growled menacingly at his fellow knight.

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "With that child in your arms?"

"Don't tempt me."

* * *

Isabelle stopped in front of Tristan. "What?" 

Tristan stared down at the already bristling woman and thought he had best get it over with as soon as he could. "Sorry about this afternoon."

"You should be," she snapped. "You left me in that damned room all week knowing it would drive me insane."

Tristan's jaw almost dropped. Here he was, actually apologizing to her and she scolded him. He narrowed his eyes. "You needed the rest. You're not well from the fever yet," he said sternly.

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't have had a fever, if you hadn't bloody beaten and whipped me half to death," she shouted.

For a moment Tristan thought that maybe he should have killed her when he had the chance. Things would have been nice and quiet then, just the way he liked it. "You tried to kill Arthur, don't blame it on me."

Isabelle gritted her teeth. She knew he was right. She was just irritated from her imprisonment in Tristan's room and the fact that he had avoided her all week so she couldn't vent her anger on him. "I need a drink," she sighed. "I don't like admitting I'm wrong." She turned around to go back to the table, but Tristan's voice stopped her.

"Settled then?" he asked.

"Aye, settled," she yielded, turning back. "I'm sorry about what I said about wanting another room. It was kind of you to give it up for so long and I shouldn't have said that."

Tristan shrugged. "You're no witch either."

"Thanks," Isabelle said ironically and continued, "I'm moving to the room next to Dagonet's. I'm well enough to be alone and you must want your room back."

Tristan shrugged again. "Don't use it that much."

"Yes, but I'm not ill anymore." She tilted her head to one side. "So, are you going to help me beat Gawain?"

"No, I'll stay here."

"I'll see you later then." She smiled and walked away.

Tristan got an apple from his pocket and cut a slice from it. He was glad that things were settled between them. He had been annoyed when she had said she had enough of him. He knew she had every right to be disgusted with and hate him for what he had done, but he thought that she understood his reasons. When she had told Lancelot that her mind was clouded from the fever he felt uncomfortable. He realised he didn't want her to hate him.

Relieved that she had been only irritated by her confinement to the bed, he watched her challenge Gawain.

"If you think you can manage to play a game without cheating, I will join you," Isabelle said, pointing her dagger threateningly at Gawain.

Gawain produced a wide grin. "If you insist. So, you two sorted things out?" he inquired.

"Yes. I was only angry because I had to stay in that bloody room all week."

"Isabelle, I don't understand why you and Tristan are so…companionable, I suppose," Lancelot said. "Shouldn't you be after his blood?"

Isabelle sat on the bench and shrugged. "He did what he had to do. I would have done the same in his stead."

"You know he enjoys his brutal ways of killing, don't you?" Lancelot asked tentatively. Tristan was a very intimidating presence on the battlefield, as well as off it, and Lancelot was a little surprised that this small woman didn't seem troubled by it.

"So do I," Isabelle said, raising an eyebrow, "and you're no saint either, Lancelot."

"Yes, but…"

Isabelle stopped him. "He understands why I am the way I am. Maybe even more than I understand myself. I suppose that's why I don't want him dead." She looked over her shoulder. Tristan was mutilating and eating an apple. "At least somebody has me figured out."

* * *

**Author's note: **Sorry for the long wait, but my semester has just begun, and some of the teachers just looooove to bury you under assignments... 


	9. Protection

**MORWEN12:** Thanks! Here's the update.

**Greenday11:** Thank you! Teachers should be made illegal...

**LANCELOTTRISTANBABY:** I'm glad you liked it :) Here's the next chapter.

**Shpadana Zizais:** Yay! New reviewer :) Thanks, hope you like the next chapter. Great name, by the way!

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**Protection**

Isabelle slept well into the afternoon the next day, completely exhausted from what had only been an hour or so in the Tavern. Shortly after her talk with Lancelot, Isabelle was ushered to her room by Dagonet. She had fallen asleep almost immediately.

Sunlight kissed the floor through the small window. Isabelle stretched her arms lazily over her head, the skin on her back straining. It was healing fast now, which caused an irksome itch.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door and Celia bustled inside. "Good afternoon, lady," she chirruped.

Isabelle cringed. "No lady, Celia. Just Isabelle, please." She watched Celia fold the clothes Isabelle had dumped on her table when she had moved here and put them in a chest. "Why are you here, Celia?"

"Don't you know? I'm the knights' maid. I look after all their rooms. Yours too. Now, do you have anything that need washing?"

"Er…the clothes I borrowed from Tristan."

"I'll get them. Would you like me to draw you a bath?"

"Yes, that'd be nice. Thank you." Isabelle was a little uncomfortable with Celia's fussing, but the maid kept chatting on cheerfully, which made Isabelle relax. Soon she was laughing about Celia's tales about the knights. Isabelle imagined it was quite a job, looking after them.

Isabelle dressed in one of her own breeches and tunics. She felt more comfortable in those than in a dress. Celia braided her hair and sent Isabelle on her way so she could clean her room.

Isabelle wandered around the building, feeling a little lost. She had no idea what to do. After a little trip to the kitchens for breakfast, she walked to the courtyard.

Suddenly she felt a little jerk on the hem of her tunic. Looking down, Isabelle saw a little girl staring up at her. "Are you a knight too?" the girl asked.

Isabelle chuckled. "No, I'm not."

"You look like them."

Isabelle supposed she was right. She had exchanged her soft, leather shoes for her knee-high riding boots. Out of habit she had put her belt on, although the sheaths were empty.

"But you're not as big," the little girl observed critically.

"What's your name?" Isabelle asked.

"Seven."

"Oh, you're one of Bors's children," Isabelle said, crouching to eye-level with Seven. "Where's your mother?"

"Working."

"Who's supposed to look after you?"

"Two."

Isabelle chuckled. "And where would Two be at the moment?"

"I don't know," Seven shrugged. "I ran away."

"Why did you do that?"

"I was bored. Will you play with me?"

_God, I suck around children, _Isabelle thought, but couldn't say no to that eager face.

"Fine, I will play with you, but we're going to see your mother first so she knows where you are."

Seven produced a radiant smile and took her hand. She dragged Isabelle to the Tavern. Vanora spotted them immediately and put her hands on her hips. "Seven! Why aren't you with your brother?"

"I wanted to see the new knight. She's a girl," Seven whispered conspiratorially. "Can I play with her?"

"I'm sure…Isabelle has other things to do. Don't bother her," Vanora told her daughter sternly.

"Actually, I don't. I would love to play with her. If you don't mind."

Vanora hesitated for a moment. "Well, I suppose. But keep her away from the men. They've been trying to put a sword in her hands since she could walk." Vanora rolled her eyes.

Isabelle laughed. "I will."

"Come on, Isabelle," Seven squealed and ran off. With a grin on her face Isabelle followed.

Vanora watched them leave. Bors had told her the truth about the barmaid Anwen. It had upset him and he had spent an entire night ranting and raving about how he would never let such things happen to his own children. She smiled. He had broken half her pottery, made love to her, and told her the next morning he was going to look after the girl if she stayed.

She turned around and went back to cleaning the tables.

* * *

"So, what do you want to do?" Isabelle asked Seven. 

"I want to see the horses," Seven answered. They sauntered to the stables, admiring the big Sarmatian breed the knights rode.

Seven took her to a black stallion. "This is Da's horse. He lets me ride it sometimes, but then Ma starts yelling at him when she finds out." She shook her head. "She always finds out."

Isabelle chuckled and scratched the animal behind its ears. Seven dragged her to the next stall. "This one is Dagonet's. And that one's Galahad's."

Seven walked to the other side. "And this one's Gawain. But she's going to have a baby-horse soon, so he has to ride another one."

"How do you know all their horses, Seven?" Isabelle asked surprised.

Seven looked around for eaves-droppers. She beckoned Isabelle closer and whispered in her ear. "I always sneak in the stables."

Isabelle laughed.

"Promise you won't tell?" Seven urged.

"Promise. Now whose horses are they?"

Seven pointed at a pitch black horse. "That one is Lancelot's. And this white one is Arthur's. I think it's very pretty." She turned around and pointed her finger at a dapple grey horse at the other side. "That one belongs to Tristan, but it doesn't like people."

Isabelle smirked. "What a surprise."

"I'll let Tristan know you said that," an amused voice said behind them. Isabelle turned around to see a grinning Lancelot. He raised an eyebrow. "Making friends your own age now?" he drawled.

"Yes, old man, I am," Isabelle retorted.

Lancelot clutched his heart. "Old! I'm only twenty-seven."

"That _is_ old," Seven commented, cocking her head to one side. Lancelot scowled at the girl.

"They're all old, aren't they?" Isabelle grinned.

"No," Seven said seriously, "Galahad is twenty-three. That's not too old. But the others are old. Especially Da. He's thirty-two. That's very old. And Lancelot, of course. He is old too. And Uncle Dag too, because he is thirty. Like Tristan. But they are not twins like Two and Three. They are just the same age."

Isabelle stared at the little girl and looked at Lancelot. "Where does that all come from?"

Lancelot shrugged. "She has good ears. She's been eaves-dropping on us since she could walk."

"So how old is Gawain?" Isabelle asked, having missed the blonde knight in Seven's elaborate description.

"Twenty-six. He's the youngest after Galahad. Gareth and Gaheris were younger than him, but they died. How old are you?" Seven told her in one breath.

"Almost seventeen," Isabelle answered, slightly taken aback.

"Oh. I'm six. Can I have a braid like you, Isabelle?" Seven asked, already bored with the conversation.

"Er…sure. We'll get a comb from my room and a ribbon, alright?"

"Yes!" Seven cheered. "Bye, Lancelot."

Lancelot waved with a bemused expression on his face.

Isabelle and Seven settled in the courtyard. While she combed through Seven's thick auburn hair, Isabelle's mind wandered off. The child didn't bother her at all. Whereas Galahad's youth scared her, because she could not understand it, Seven's youth was innocence and felt soothing.

"There," Isabelle said when she had finished. "You look very pretty."

"When I'm big, I want to be a knight too," Seven confided, "but they don't look pretty."

Isabelle smiled. "You're a girl. You can be a knight and look pretty at the same time."

Gawain walked towards them. "Isabelle, Arthur wants to see us in the Hall."

"Oh," Isabelle said surprised. "You go and show your mother your hair, Seven. I'll see you later."

Seven pouted, but ran away, waving at Gawain, who waved back. "Enjoying yourself?" he grinned.

"Very much," Isabelle grinned back. "I've just heard a six-year-old insult Lancelot. I'm having a wonderful day."

Gawain burst out laughing. "Seven, eh? What did she say this time?"

"That he was old," Isabelle said.

"That must have hurt", Gawain guffawed. Chuckling they walked to the Hall. Isabelle sat between Gawain and Tristan, feeling a bit strange at the sight of the Round Table.

Although she had been only nine when she was lost in the caves, that was old enough to have heard about the legend of King Arthur and his Knights. She hid her smile in the cup of wine that was put in front of her.

Arthur raised his cup. "Knights, I want to discuss our plans regarding Maurus."

Isabelle stiffened.

Arthur turned towards her. "Isabelle, I'm afraid we won't be able to go south to Maurus. Summer is approaching and I'll have too much trouble with the Woads and Saxons to send my knights on a mission like that."

"Woad season," Gawain grinned maliciously.

"Harvest season," Bors added.

"I understand," Isabelle said.

"Which means that you'll have to be extra cautious, in case Maurus sends someone up here. I don't want you wandering around without one of the men."

Isabelle opened her mouth to protest, but Arthur cut her off. "I know that you're capable of defending yourself, but I've offered you protection and I will hold to my word."

Isabelle closed her mouth and shrugged. "I suppose you're right."

Galahad sighed. "One more summer and winter and then it's back to Sarmatia."

"If I survive the next six months," Bors interjected. "Vanora's with child again."

"Gods, Bors, that's going to be number eleven, isn't it?" Gawain groaned. "How are we supposed to teach all of them decency? You are certainly not capable of that."

"Watch your tongue," Bors growled.

"Knights," Arthur said, "patrols will be increased. The villages have already sent word that Woads have been scouting their lands."

"Great," Gawain grumbled miserably, "and I still have to ride that damned stubborn horse instead of my own mare. I swear she's stalling the birth just to annoy me."

"Who wouldn't?" Galahad smirked. Gawain shot him a nasty glare, before taking a gulp from his wine.

"We leave on patrol at dawn," Arthur continued, now slightly exasperated. "We'll be away for two weeks. I'll see you in the morning. Isabelle, be careful." Arthur rose and the knights followed his example.

That night Isabelle stayed only a little while in the Tavern, because she was already exhausted, so she said goodbye to the knights there, knowing that a whole legion of soldiers couldn't wake her up that early.

Bors ruffled her hair. "See you in a fortnight, lassie."

Isabelle glared and smoothened her already obstinate hair. "You too, Bors."

Dagonet merely smiled and put his hand on her shoulder. She walked to the others who were sitting at a table. "Good luck and be careful," she said a bit shyly.

She caught Tristan's look and he nodded at her. She smiled back.

"What?" Lancelot pretended to be disappointed. "No kiss?"

Isabelle snorted. "Dreams are pleasant, aren't they? Too bad they won't come true."

"That hurt, woman," Lancelot growled.

"I think that was the intention," Gawain said, winking at Isabelle. "But I'm sure she'll give me a kiss."

"Really, Gawain, I don't know where you get such ideas," Isabelle said in mock offence.

"My dreams," he replied cheekily. Isabelle rolled her eyes, but burst out laughing when she saw his broad grin.

"Hopeless," she sighed. "Goodnight."

* * *

Author's note: Bit of a filler chapter, I know. It will pick up in the next chapters. Let me know what you think. 


	10. Narrow Escape

**Author's note: Lots of thanks to Morwen12, lozcollie and Makayla for reviewing! I'm glad you liked it and here's the next chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Nope, don't own anything from the movie or the legend.

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**Narrow Escape**

Isabelle blew a stray strand of hair out of her face. The knights had been gone for only four days and already she was bored out of her mind.

She reluctantly admitted that she enjoyed their company. "Ten more days," she muttered. Shifting on the bench she had dropped herself on, she thought about the knights.

Dagonet acted like a nanny around her. He didn't speak much, but one stern look from him made her want to say, "Yes, Dagonet," and retreat to her room immediately to rest. She wondered how a big man like him could be so gentle and imposing at the same time.

He was particularly close to Bors, who made up completely for Dagonet's scarce conversations. Isabelle had never met a man so loud, crude, and boisterous, and yet so amiable. She felt a grin creep over her face. Despite his big mouth, it was not Bors who was in charge at home, however. His lover, Vanora, was an even more impressive presence than him.

Lancelot could boast all he wanted, but Vanora belonged to Bors. Isabelle chuckled. Lancelot flirted with anything that had two legs and a bosom. And generally got what he wanted. Though he was pleasant company to be around, if not a little too persuasive, Isabelle knew he had a very short temper. Just by watching his face for a few minutes, one would see a whole scale of emotions pass, sometimes hidden behind his jokes and banter.

Gawain would joke around like that too. Isabelle liked his low, rumbling voice and loud, rolling laugh. He was big and muscular and rumours had told her he was a true menace on the battlefield. Despite being an fierce fighter, he had a more gentle side, as he had shown to Isabelle. It still made her smile when she thought of him in that chair, asking if he had hurt her.

There was a tight bond between all the men, but it was even tighter between Gawain and Galahad. They were as close as brothers. Galahad was the younger and more rash of the two. Isabelle shook her head. After all the things he must have seen and done, he was almost unaffected by it, killing only because it was his duty and counting the days until he could return to his homeland. It made her uncomfortable, because she could clearly see the difference between herself and the youngest knight.

She felt more at ease around Tristan, who made no secret of the fact that he enjoyed fighting and killing. Like Dagonet, he only spoke when he had something to say and he was extremely guarded around his emotions. His long, black hair that fell in his face made it even more difficult to read him. Though the scout still intimidated her somewhat, Isabelle didn't mind his presence.

That left the knight's commander, Arthur Castus. She had heard many stories about him. His generosity, mercifulness, and justice were praised by the fort's residents. _But he is still a Roman_, Isabelle thought. She had seen enough of Romans. She decided to save forming her opinion of him for later.

Isabelle closed her eyes and lifted her face to catch the sunrays. She had carefully avoided thinking about her future plans. Going home wasn't an option. She could hardly remember the area where the caves were, let alone find the right one.

She would have to create a life for herself in this time. Isabelle chuckled when the irony hit her. A future in the past.

Suddenly the sunlight on her face was obscured. Isabelle opened her eyes and they widened in shock. "Briar," she breathed. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Her fellow assassin and Maurus's personal bloodhound towered over her. "Anwen. You seem to be enjoying yourself."

Isabelle shrugged when she looked into Briar's ice-blue eyes. "I suppose."

Briar bent over her. "What the hell is taking you so long?" he hissed. "You've been here for weeks now. And why are you not dressed as a barmaid?"

"Calm yourself, man," Isabelle scoffed. "Arthur and his knights are away on a mission. So I took the opportunity to go out riding," she quickly invented, "to stay in shape. These barmaid-affairs are making me soft. And I'd like to see you ride in skirts."

Briar snorted in amusement, but continued more sternly, "Why is the Roman not dead yet?"

"Because I can't get close to him. He hardly ever visits the Tavern," Isabelle said. "I'm thinking about trying to get to him through one of the Sarmatian knights."

Briar frowned. "What do you mean?"

Isabelle leaned back and conjured a confident smirk on her face. "They have a different barmaid of some other wench warm their beds every night. It shouldn't be too hard getting to the commander's room once I'm in a knight's room."

"Well, Maurus will be glad to know you're still in place," Briar said. "He was getting worried. This is an important assignment you've been trusted with."

"Tell him everything is fine. It's only going to take a little longer than we had anticipated. Arthur is well-protected by his knights, but I'll find a way around them."

"For your sake I hope so," Briar said, narrowing his eyes, "because if you fail…" He left the rest unspoken, but fingered the knife in his belt.

"I won't." Isabelle stared defiantly at the dark-haired man. "You had best leave now, before anyone sees me with you. And I need to change into a dress again."

Briar nodded. "Good luck."

"I don't need luck," Isabelle drawled. Briar glared at her and walked away. Isabelle sat still until he was well out of sight. Only then she let her breath escape from her lungs. "That was close," she sighed.

* * *

When Arthur and the knights returned , Isabelle immediately went to Arthur's room. 

"Enter," Arthur called when he heard the knock. Isabelle stepped inside.

"Isabelle," Arthur greeted her. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. Listen, one of Maurus's assassins was here while you were away."

Arthur stopped cleaning his sword. "Are you all right?"

"Aye, I'm fine. He was sent by Maurus to find out why I was taking so long. I think I had him convinced to give me more time, saying you were very difficult to come close to."

"He believed you?"

"I think so."

Arthur nodded slowly. "Just be very careful around the fort. I don't want you outside on your own again. Especially not when we are away."

"But…" Isabelle protested.

"You're not being guarded. As long as one of the knights is within your sight it's fine," Arthur said and smiled. "You don't take well to being locked up, do you?"

"Not really," Isabelle admitted. "Even with Maurus I was free to move around at the estate. But anyway, I still get tired very quickly, so I'll be resting a lot for now."

"Well, I'm glad to see that some sense has entered your head," Lancelot grinned from the doorway.

"Don't you knock?" Isabelle snapped.

"Not when you leave the door open, little harpy," he retorted.

"Pansy."

"Baby."

Isabelle snorted. "Look who's talking."

"That would be Lancelot, your servant, milady." Lancelot bowed.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Exasperated he sighed, "Do you mind, Lancelot?"

"Not at all. I just came to tell you that Dagonet has removed the arrow's head from Tristan's chest. He says he'll be fine. It's a shallow wound, so nothing vital was hit."

He said the last words in a reassuring voice, noticing Isabelle's eyes had widened in shock.

"Thank you, Lancelot. I'm relieved to hear that," Arthur nodded.

Lancelot's face contorted a little. "Dagonet says he has to stay in bed for three days…"

Arthur's face contorted in a very similar way.

Isabelle looked from one man to the other. "Why are you frowning like that?" she asked.

"Because, little Belle," Lancelot said, "if you thought that you were a difficult patient, which you were by the way, you're nothing compared to our scout. The man managed to go out riding four days after a Woad almost gutted him. If he was cut only half an inch deeper, his intestines would have been hanging on the outside. "

Isabelle grimaced. "Idiot," she muttered.

"You try telling him that," Lancelot sighed.

"I will," Isabelle growled fiercely. "If that bastard thinks he can keep me locked up in a room when I was only a little dizzy, while he frolics around with an arrow in his chest and a gut wound, he will be sorely mistaken. Excuse me, Arthur."

Isabelle stalked out of the room. Lancelot looked at his commander and raised a sculpted eyebrow. "Tristan? Frolicking?"

Arthur grinned. "That's an interesting image." The two men burst out laughing.

* * *

Isabelle opened the door of Tristan's room. She couldn't bite back a malicious grin as she saw the sleeping form in the bed. My, my, were the tables turned now. 

She advanced on the bed, making no sound. Tristan lay on his back in a half-sitting position. A large bandage covered his chest and a shoulder. Isabelle studied him. He was quite pale, but breathed calmly. Normally, when Isabelle saw people, they were either healthy, or dead. This wounded man was something new to her.

She extended a finger and poked him in his unbandaged shoulder. His eyes snapped open and he grabbed her wrist, glaring at her. "What are you doing?"

"You're awake now. Good," Isabelle said.

"I was not asleep," Tristan said.

"You should have been. You're injured," she scolded him. "You're an idiot, you know that? Riding a horse when you were nearly killed…"

Tristan was confused. "The wound is not that serious."

"I'm not talking about the arrow-wound – although I will have something to say about that later – I'm talking about your gut. You can't go riding a horse when someone almost disembowelled you!"

"You sound like Dagonet," he said distastefully.

Isabelle moved her face a little closer to him and hissed, "That's because I've spent so much time with him when he would not let me get out of bed. Because of you."

"Is that what this is about?"

"Partly. Now let go of my wrist so I can get a chair and you can tell me what happened," she ordered.

Tristan looked at her arm, realizing he was still holding it and quickly let go. Isabelle drew up a chair and settled herself in it. She looked expectantly at him.

He refrained from rolling his eyes, and began telling what happened. "Woads ambushed us on our way back. One shot me in the chest. It was a weak shot. The archer was distracted by Lancelot's sword plunging into his chest."

Isabelle chuckled. Tristan continued, "I pulled the arrow out, but the head was left in my body."

"So you just rode back here with an arrowhead stuck in your chest." Isabelle shook her head in disapproval.

Tristan frowned. "You do sound like Dagonet." Dagonet had said almost the exact same thing when he had refused to let him examine the wound, saying they had to leave before more Woads showed up.

Isabelle pointed a warning finger at him. "Don't go there." She looked at the bandages and her hand dropped in her lap. "You were lucky."

"Aye."

"Dagonet says you have to stay in bed for three days." The malicious grin returned on Isabelle's face. Tristan narrowed his eyes at her and shrugged.

"Surely you will. After all, you wouldn't want to pass out in the hallway, would you? I'm not carrying you back to your bed."

Tristan shot her a warning look. "Go and let me sleep, woman."

"You can sleep. I'm staying here."

"That's not necessary."

"Dagonet's outside and he says it's necessary." Tristan stared at her. Isabelle smirked. "You may close your eyes. I promise I won't kill you."

"You can try," Tristan mumbled and closed his eyes.

* * *

When Dagonet brought Tristan's dinner to his room that night, he found his fellow knight asleep and Isabelle dozing in the chair next to the bed. Smiling to himself, he put the tray on the table and gently shook the girl's shoulder. 

"What?" she mumbled and blinked.

"Make sure he eats this when he wakes," Dagonet said softly.

"I'm awake," Tristan said, opening his eyes.

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Can't take a bloody breath without him waking up again."

Tristan grinned slightly. "I sleep lightly."

"And we're all very happy that you do," Dagonet said dryly, referring to his abilities as a scout, "but for now, just rest and eat." He nodded at them and left.

Isabelle got up and fetched the tray. She placed it on Tristan's legs and curled herself up in the chair again. He looked at her. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No."

"Help yourself then." He pushed the tray a little in Isabelle's direction. She leaned forward and snatched a piece of bread from the tray.

Tristan studied her while she busied herself with the bread. She brushed her long curls impatiently from her face, only to have it fall back in her face moments later. He had to restrain himself not to stretch out his hand and tuck the rebellious strands behind her ear.

He averted his eyes and bit down on a lump of cheese. He felt oddly protective of the young woman in the chair, who by no means needed his protection. Tristan didn't know whether it was because he regretted what he had done to her or because of the openness she showed around him. The gods knew he hadn't done anything to deserve that trust. He didn't understand.

Isabelle looked up at his annoyed sigh. "Are you not well?" she asked in a concerned voice.

Tristan shook his head. "I'm well enough. How were you these weeks?"

"Bored," Isabelle grinned, "but things are looking up. I'm going to teach Bors that little lesson soon."

"Have you recovered enough for that?"

Isabelle folded her arms and gave him a stern look. "I hardly think that is a suitable question from someone who goes out riding with a fresh gut wound."

Tristan grinned. "Fair enough."

"I…er…had a visit from one of Maurus's other assassins," she said.

Tristan stiffened. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. He came to ask why Arthur wasn't dead yet, so I told him I needed more time, because he was well-protected. I think he believed me."

"You can't stay on your own anymore," Tristan said.

Isabelle chuckled. "That's what Arthur said too. But nothing will happen for a few weeks time. I told Briar I had a plan, which was what I had already tried to do. So I've got at least a fortnight."

"But still," he said, "after that they'll come back."

"I know. But by then I'll be strong enough to fight back." Isabelle fell silent and bit her lip.

"What?"

"It's just that he sent Briar after me. He's Maurus's trustee and the best assassin. Arthur's death must be very important."

"We'll find out when we pay him a visit," Tristan said grimly. "How good are you when it comes to defending yourself?"

Isabelle stopped chewing and threw him an incredulous look. Tristan, however, was completely serious. "I'm an assassin," she said in a tone that this should explain everything.

"You got caught," he replied dryly.

Isabelle huffed angrily. "You don't have to remind me. Fine, I prefer the weapons you saw in Arthur's room. They are double-edged, curved trailing-point knives that were handmade for me, but I'm also good with a sword - the Roman Gladius, not the ridiculously large ones you knights use – shorter knives and daggers, tridents, field axe, poison and hand-to-hand."

"Poison and hand-to-hand?"

"Yes. I'm an assassin, not a warrior."

Tristan looked Isabelle up and down. "You'll never beat any man hand-to-hand," he judged with a small smirk.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. "There are more ways to fight hand-to-hand than wrestle, Tristan." She produced an evil grin. "Besides, I'm fast and I cheat. You might be surprised."

Amused, Tristan snorted. "No archery?" he asked then.

"No," Isabelle said, "not of much use to an assassin."

"It is of use here. Galahad and I will have to teach you."

"Galahad?"

"Yes. He's the best," Tristan said. "After me."

"No false modesty, I see," Isabelle snorted.

"We'll start tomorrow."

"No, we won't," Isabelle hissed menacingly. "You're staying in bed for three days."

"And who is going to make me?" Tristan asked, tilting his head tauntingly. "You?"

"I could if I wanted to," Isabelle boasted, "but I think I'll just let Arthur order you to stay in bed. He already knows that you should."

Tristan huffed and turned to his food, ignoring Isabelle's muffled giggle. _Annoying girl_, he thought. _She would probably do it without hesitation. _And he could not disobey a direct order from Arthur. Yes, she was definitely annoying. Slightly amusing perhaps, but mostly annoying.


	11. Plans

**Morwen12: **Thanks! Here's the update.

**BornWithAFever:** I'm glad you like it :) Here's another chapter.

**Mandamirra10:** Thanks! That's great to hear :D. I hope you like the next chapter.

**SilverMagiccraft:** Thanks for the compliment. Keeps me going! And thanks for _your_ time, I'm glad you had the time to review.

**Eshlyn Kar:** (whistles innocently and twiddles thumbs) I'm not telling... lol. We'll see ;)

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* * *

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**Plans**

Arthur smiled when Lancelot left after Isabelle. So, she was still here. He had given a soldier the order to keep an eye on her, to see what she would do when Arthur and his knights were gone.

The soldier had reported that she had done nothing but stroll around the fort, looking bored. He had mentioned the encounter she had with a dark-haired man that had an arrogant air about him and walked like a warrior.

Arthur was more than pleased when Isabelle had come to him straight away. It seemed that her acceptance of his offer was not a trick.

He resumed cleaning his sword and armour.

* * *

Two days later Tristan walked across the courtyard to the Tavern. Isabelle was waiting for him, folding her arms and tapping her foot disapprovingly. "Can't you count?" 

Tristan blinked. "What?"

"Three days, scout. Three. Not two. Or are you deaf as well?"

Tristan rolled his eyes and walked past her. Isabelle turned on her heels to tell him off, stopped halfway and turned back, stalking off to the training grounds. She might as well have been talking to a wall.

Isabelle whistled loudly when she saw the knights. "My, my," she teased. "I've died and gone to heaven." She grinned and threw them a leering look.

It was an unusually warm day and the knights were training without tunics or armour on. Slightly shocked, they looked up at Isabelle's comment. Galahad's cheeks turned red.

Lancelot gave her a lecherous grin. "Why don't you join us? That tunic of yours looks much to warm to wear." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I'm fine, but thank you for your _concern_," she drawled.

"Anytime."

Isabelle chuckled and leaned against the fence to watch the knights fight. Though she had seen men fight with… lack of armour and clothing before – Maurus had about seven male assassins in his service – and usually didn't pay too much attention to it, she found herself blushing.

"Ridiculous," she huffed. "I don't blush."

"What'd you say?" Bors asked, turning his head to her.

"Nothing," Isabelle said quickly.

She looked at the others again. Galahad and Gawain were fighting, although it seemed more like they were having fun than actually training. Isabelle caught herself smiling at the long-haired knight. He had pulled his unruly hair in a tail. Several loose strands clung to his heated face and his chest gleamed with sweat. Isabelle cleared her throat and redirected her gaze to his face again.

Gawain grinned back, before he attacked his friend bodily and threw him on the ground. Galahad roared loudly in protest and wrestled his way out from under the heavier knight. They rolled around in the sand, now watched by several laughing knights, until Gawain managed to take Galahad's head in an arm-lock and began rubbing his knuckles over Galahad's skull. Galahad pinched Gawain in a very mean place and the blonde immediately let go, swearing violently.

Galahad rolled away from his friend and got to his feet.

"Our pup is getting fangs," Bors laughed. Galahad scowled at him and walked to the water trough close to Isabelle to clean the sand off him.

Gawain followed him. "You know, Isabelle, I think Lancelot was rather right. That tunic looks as if it's smothering you. Do you want me to cool you off?" he asked with one eye on the water trough.

Isabelle pointed a warning finger at him. "Try it and die."

Gawain lunged at her and she darted away from him. "I'm warning you, knight. Stay away from me."

Gawain threw her an evil grin and ran towards her. Isabelle swore and sped off, letting out an impressive stream of curses while she was being chased around the training grounds. Gawain recognised at least three different languages and laughed even harder.

Suddenly a heavy weight hit Isabelle in the back of her legs. Her knees buckled and she fell flat-faced to the ground. "Help me, you bastards," she shouted at the surrounding knights when she was being turned around by Gawain.

"Bastards?" Lancelot repeated in mock shock. "You're on your own now, girl."

Gawain rumbled with laughter, which turned into a yelp when she yanked on his hair. "Harpy," he growled and began to tickle her.

Isabelle squealed and tried to get away, but he was too heavy and straddling her legs. "Bastard," she panted and went into another fit of laughter when he tickled her even more mercilessly. She tried to smack him, but he simply leaned backwards.

In a fluid motion he got to his feet, dragging Isabelle up with him, and threw her over his shoulder, marching towards the water trough.

"NO!" Isabelle shouted. "I don't want to. I don't want to. You evil son of a mad horse! I'll get you for this…aaargh!"

Gawain had thrown her unceremoniously in the trough. Spluttering she came up for air, wiping her soaked hair from her eyes. Gawain stood bent over beside the trough, clutching his sides and howling with laughter.

Isabelle growled and jumped on him. He hadn't seen it coming and crashed to the ground. "Ow," he wheezed. Isabelle bared her teeth and pinned his arms to the ground. He chuckled.

"Say goodbye to your nose, knight," she hissed, "because I'm going to break it."

The other knights roared with laughter. "Such a nasty temper she has," Lancelot laughed.

Gawain suddenly relaxed completely and smiled. "You could've just told me you wanted to be on top."

Isabelle's jaw dropped. "You…you…" she sputtered indignantly.

Gawain took the opportunity and reversed their position, pinning her down under him. He kissed the tip of her nose, but lifted his head just in time when Isabelle snapped at him.

"GAWAIN!" a loud voice boomed. Gawain's head jerked up and he looked at the owner of the voice. Isabelle followed his gaze. _Whoa, and I thought Dagonet was tall_, she thought.

"What have I told you about how to treat a woman?" the unknown man asked exasperatedly.

"Kay!" Gawain bellowed happily. "You're back!"

Isabelle sensed he wasn't paying attention to her anymore and brought up her knee between his legs to throw him off balance. "Cheat!" the knight roared, but was put on his back anyway.

Isabelle smiled wickedly. "You could have just told me you like to be the submissive one."

"I was talking to someone," Gawain protested.

"We weren't finished," she hissed back.

"But I will be, if you don't stop wriggling around like that," came the cheeky answer. Isabelle punched his chest.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to the lovely lass sitting on your chest?" Kay asked.

"Well, actually, she's not sitting on my _chest_," Gawain said. Isabelle punched him again. "Stop hitting me, woman," he demanded and looked at Kay again. "This is Isabelle, our resident harpy."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Isabelle said sweetly, flashing a charming smile at the enormous man.

Gawain snorted loudly. "Now she's polite. Isabelle, this is Kay, also a Sarmatian knight. He retired five years ago and is now our blacksmith."

Isabelle looked at the huge man. He had long, black hair that reached halfway down his back, tied at the nape of his neck. The amount of silky hair would have made most men seem girlish, but Kay radiated masculinity. A white scar ran down the left side of his tanned face, splitting his eyebrow in two and barely missing an eye, and disappeared under his jaw. He looked down his long nose at her with amused piercing blue eyes, arms folded across a massive chest.

Isabelle felt very tiny and could not stop staring. "Are you going to get off me any time today?" Gawain asked.

Isabelle punched him one last time and got to her feet, still dripping with water. Thankfully she was wearing a dark-coloured tunic. She wrenched the water from her hair and glared at the blonde knight, who was still lying on his back, looking exceptionally pleased with himself. "How was your journey?" he asked Kay.

"Get on your feet, idiot!" Kay growled and extended a hand. "What were you doing to that poor girl anyway?"

Isabelle had a feeling she was going to like Kay. Gawain looked indignant. "What she was doing to me, you mean! She threatened to break my nose!"

"That was not a threat, Gawain. It was a promise," Isabelle replied.

"Don't make me throw you in that trough again."

Isabelle ignored him. The other knights came forward to greet Kay with slaps on the back and questions about his journey. He had been to Londinium to pick up some of the newest techniques and was explaining them with enthusiasm when Tristan arrived at the training grounds.

Kay slapped him affectionately on the back. "Tristan! My favourite scout!"

Tristan winced slightly because of his injury. "The only scout, you mean," he retorted dryly.

"Small detail," Kay shrugged.

Tristan's eyes looked past the blacksmith and rested on the soaked Isabelle. He raised an eyebrow. "You've been busy." The corners of his mouth twitched.

"Just so you know: I won. Hand-to-hand," Isabelle told him smugly.

"Only because you cheated," Gawain – also wet, and covered in sand – said indignantly.

"Doesn't matter. I still won. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a bath. I've got sand in all sorts of inconvenient places." She walked out of the training court with all the dignity she could muster, although her effort was slightly diminished by the sound of her feet sopping in their boots.

Tristan snorted when Isabelle walked past him with her nose high in the air, but couldn't help noticing that her soaked tunic and breeches clung to her in places it normally didn't.

"Is she not a little young for your taste, Tris?" Kay asked quietly, following the scout's stare.

Tristan's head shot up. "She's not my taste," he denied, keeping his face blank.

"Who is she anyway?" Kay asked curiously. "I've never seen her before."

"Just a girl," Tristan said.

"Woman," Lancelot corrected.

"Harpy," Gawain grumbled, shaking sand from his hair.

"Patient," Dagonet said.

"Fine, I'll tell him," Galahad sighed. "Assassin."

"Pardon?" Kay blinked.

"Tis a long story," Bors answered. "Best told over a mug of ale."

* * *

"Are you sure? Such a little lass?" Kay asked incredulously after being told about the events of the last few weeks. 

"She didn't remind me much of a little lass when she stood in Arthur's room, knives ready and a bloodthirsty look in her eyes," Lancelot said.

Suddenly Galahad choked on his ale. Gawain thumped him on the back, asking him if he was all right. Galahad pointed at something in the court yard. Gawain looked in the direction of his friend's finger and his eyes widened.

Isabelle walked to the Tavern, scrubbed clean and a distinct scowl on her face. Her hair was pulled back in an elaborate style of curls and braids tied with ribbons and she was wearing an expensive and tight-fitting dress. It was a dark green colour and matched her pale skin and green eyes.

She sulked even more when Lancelot let out a loud whistle. "Marry me?"

"Shut up. _Someone_…" she gritted her teeth and glared at the knights, "…told Celia I was a lady and now she has made it her personal quest to make me resemble one."

She plonked on the bench next to Gawain, grabbed his mug of ale and emptied it. "I hate ribbons," she muttered, staring at the empty mug. "I want to kill someone."

"Didn't I tell you?" Lancelot said to Kay. "Bloodthirsty."

Isabelle noticed Gawain was staring at her. "What?"

"You look stunning."

"Ugh," she grunted and dropped her head on the table. "I'm getting a headache from this hairstyle."

"You still look stunning," Gawain shrugged. Isabelle grumbled something unintelligible to the table and missed the glare that Tristan sent the blonde knight.

Isabelle looked up when someone got abruptly to his feet. Tristan stepped over the bench and stalked out of the Tavern. "What's wrong with him?" she frowned.

"With Tristan you never know," Lancelot shrugged and gave Isabelle a scrutinizing look that she didn't understand.

Isabelle watched Tristan's tall figure disappear around a corner and felt slightly disappointed, which – again – she didn't understand. She didn't understand a lot of things lately.

_For example_, she thought, _why I had not been scared in the least this afternoon_. Her fellow assassins had tried to grab her many times at Maurus's, but a few well-placed punches and the flash of a knife usually took care of them, although it had made her cautious of any man's touch.

Isabelle frowned. And yet, she had not once felt the need to defend herself in earnest today. True, she wasn't armed, but she was more than capable of flooring a man without weapons and doing considerable damage in the mean time.

Trust was too big a word to Isabelle. She settled for the notion that she didn't feel threatened by the knights. She knew that most of the knights' friendliness came from pity and she didn't like that. She didn't want to be pitied. She would make them see that she didn't _need_ to be pitied. She could take care of herself, as she had done before she had met Arthur and his knights. And she would do it again.

Isabelle smiled, satisfied with her plans. Then she curled up her lip. First she needed to get out of this dress.


	12. Attack

**Author's note: Lots of thanks to my reviewers: Morwen12, lozcollie, Eshlyn Kar ( The only hint I will give is that it's not Kay, but anymore hints would give away the story ;)You'll find out more about Kay in later chapters, btw), Greenday11 and LANCELOTTRISTANBABY.**

**Warning: **Rape in this chapter. Please skip that part if you feel you might be offended by it.

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* * *

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**Attack**

To Isabelle's dismay and the amusement of the knights, Arthur thought it was a good idea to lead people on about Isabelle being a lady. He reckoned she should pose as a friend of his family. No one would ever associate a barmaid that had only worked in the Tavern for a fortnight so many weeks ago with the newly arrived acquaintance of Arthur's.

Despite Isabelle's protests Celia was told that Isabelle was attacked on her way here, which would explain her wounds and illness and lack of clothes, and the confusion had delayed a proper welcoming.

Galahad had an unpleasant day when Isabelle found out he was the one that had told Celia she was a lady. He tried to apologize by saying that Celia would not leave him alone, asking him questions about the mysterious young woman. When he came up with the story that she was a lady travelling to the fort, but did not know more, she had finally ceased her interrogation.

Celia was delighted to be serving a lady, albeit an unconventional one. The previous commander had brought his mistress to the fort and many of her possessions were kept in storage in the fort after she left. Celia had all of them brought to Isabelle's room and made the unwilling assassin undergo an elaborate fitting session.

Isabelle left her room three hours later, fuming. Once again she was wearing a dress with a wide, swirling skirt and long, embroidered sleeves. Having tripped twice on her way to the Great Hall, she had worked herself up to the point of exploding.

Two servants bowed to her when she reached the doors to the Hall and opened them for her. "Milady," they mumbled. Celia had spread the word.

The knights were sitting at the Round Table and tried to hide their sniggers when they saw Isabelle's flustered face. She narrowed her eyes at them.

Arthur rose from his seat. "Milady, please sit with me."

Galahad bit down on his hand trying not to laugh at the murderous look Isabelle gave his commander. Lancelot snorted in his cup.

Isabelle suddenly smiled sweetly and curtsied perfectly. "I would love to, dear Arthur. Good evening, sirs." She gracefully sat down in the seat Arthur offered her and batted her eyelashes at the knights.

This was too much for Bors, who exploded with laughter.

"Pray, sir Bors," Isabelle chirped, "do tell me what you find so amusing."

"What?" Bors blinked.

"I asked what was so damn funny?"

"You are. You should see your face."

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir. Why don't you let me tell you about my wonderful day? I have tried on so many dresses." She sent an evil smile across the Table.

Half an hour later the knights knew why. Isabelle had not stopped talking about the dresses, describing their colour, texture, and embroidery in detail and praising the skill of Celia and the seamstress.

She talked all the way through dinner while the knights sunk lower and lower into their seats, casting each other looks of pure misery.

"ENOUGH!" Lancelot finally roared. "We get it, woman. You made your point. I apologize on behalf of myself and the rest of us. You don't like being a lady. Understood." He looked at her with pleading eyes. "Please, no more talk about dresses, I beg you."

"Apology accepted," Isabelle grinned. Arthur and the knights sighed in relief.

"Nevertheless," Arthur began, "we won't abandon this plan. Talk to Celia, so that you'll be partially relieved of your 'duties' as a lady, but you'll still pose as a friend of the family."

"Fine," Isabelle sighed. "Does this mean Lancelot will be punished for calling me woman, instead of lady? I thought that was rather rude. My gentle heart has been stepped upon."

Gawain and Galahad snorted with laughter when Lancelot threw her a dirty look. Arthur looked in exasperation at the girl next to him. "Please find it in your gentle heart to forgive him."

"Only because of you, Arthur m'dear," Isabelle smiled.

* * *

A week later Tristan waited for Isabelle in the training court. Dagonet had removed his stitches that morning and he had told her he wanted to get started on teaching her archery. 

Isabelle walked towards him, yawning widely. The sun had just risen over the hills, bathing the fort in a diffuse golden light. She pulled her hair back in a loose bun and looked expectantly at the scout. "You'd better have something good prepared to get me out of bed so early."

Tristan handed her a bow. "How far can you draw it?"

Isabelle took the bow in her left hand and pulled the string with her right. Her arm trembled with the effort.

Tristan made a vague sound. "That'll do." He adjusted her grip on the bow.

"Is it supposed to be so difficult?" she asked and relaxed the bow.

"You'll get stronger."

Isabelle's jaw dropped. "Are you saying that I'm weak?"

Tristan repressed a sigh. "No, I'm saying that you'll get used to it. Try drawing the bow a few times."

Isabelle did as he requested and found that it did not get any easier. She refused to give up and continued to draw and relax the string with a clenched jaw.

Tristan watched her struggle for a while and then took the bow from her. Isabelle massaged her arm while she listened to his explanation of the makings and workings of a bow. He pointed out the curves of the wood typical of this type of bow.

"What type of bow is it?" Isabelle asked.

"Traditional Sarmatian bow," Tristan answered. "Mostly used on horseback."

"Obviously, if it's Sarmatian," Isabelle grinned. She watched Tristan's hand slide almost lovingly over the curves of the wood and felt her blood rush to her cheeks when her thoughts strayed from archery.

"We'll stay on the ground for now," Tristan said dryly. "Watch." He pulled the string to full draw-length effortlessly, automatically moving into the correct position. "Left arm outstretched in front of you, left foot in front of the other, pull your right arm back, shoulders down, elbow…"

Dagonet ran into the training court. "Tristan," he interrupted the scout, "come to the gate now. Saxons." Dagonet turned on his heels and ran off.

Tristan took off immediately, the bow still in his hand. Isabelle stood still for a moment, before she went after him. She knew why the knights' faces were so grave. The Saxons were an even bigger threat in the south, where she was from.

Her train of thought was interrupted when she was slammed into a wall by a big man with dirty blonde hair. A large hand grabbed her throat and held her up against the wall.

"You little whore," the man hissed. "You didn't expect Briar to leave someone here after his visit, did you?"

"Amalric," Isabelle coughed. "Filthy swine."

Amalric's hand tightened around Isabelle's throat. Black spots appeared in her vision and she struggled to remain conscious, knowing that he enjoyed this. He had it in for her ever since she had nearly unmanned him when he had tried to rape her.

Briar must have had his doubts about her if he brought Amalric with him. Of all Maurus's assassins he would have the least problems with killing her. Or rather, no problems at all.

"Bet you love it here, whore," Amalric panted in her ear. "How many of those knights have fucked you? All of them?"

"What's it to you, huh? Does it get you off?" Isabelle hissed back. "It's not like you'll ever fuck anyone again."

Amalric growled and backhanded her. Her head snapped back against the wall. He let go of her throat and started dragging her to a nearby alley. When her head stopped spinning and she thought about calling for help, he had hauled her against a wall again, pressing his body against her.

Isabelle gritted her teeth when she noticed his state of arousal.

"You missed," Amalric chuckled.

She suddenly began to realise the precariousness of her situation. She was unarmed and alone. Every knight would be at the gate by now and she wouldn't be missed. No one had summoned her to the gate.

Isabelle bared her teeth and butted her head forward, hitting Amalric hard. He staggered backwards, but his hand shot out immediately when Isabelle ran from him. He jerked her back to him and threw her against the wall again. She stood still when she saw the flashing of a knife.

Amalric chuckled and traced the knife over her cheek. Isabelle's eyes flamed with hatred. He brought the knife to her other cheek and cut her skin. "Marked by me as well." He grinned, revealing a set of yellow, uneven teeth.

Isabelle spat in his face. Amalric hissed. "Not very nice." He held her against the wall and slammed his fist in her stomach.

Isabelle bent over, gasping for breath when shocks of pain ran through her body. Amalric heaved her back up again and put his knife against her throat. "Briar didn't give me specific orders what to do with you in case of betrayal. But I know just the thing." He pressed his hips against her.

"Try it and I'll unman you for good this time," Isabelle hissed.

"Be a good whore and shut up," he grunted and closed his hand with the knife around her throat. The blade pressed against her jaw, preventing her from moving her head. Amalric's hand slid inside her tunic in search for her breasts.

"Take your hands off me or I'll kill you," she snapped.

His fingers wormed their way under her breast band. He chuckled. "You're the one that'll get killed. But first I take what so many others have already had. And perhaps I'll take it again after I kill you."

"You sick bastard," Isabelle choked and tried to knee him. He pressed the knife closer to the pulsing vein in her neck as a threat. Isabelle relented, but cried out when he meanly twisted a nipple.

"Get away from her," a deep voice commanded icily. Tristan's eyes glinted with a feral light behind a curtain of black hair. The moment Amalric's grip on her loosened when he looked at the dark knight, Isabelle brought up her knee again and crushed it into his pelvis. The assassin roared in pain. Isabelle shoved him away from her.

Tristan's sword left its scabbard and two seconds later Amalric fell to the ground with a slit throat and unmanned for good this time. Isabelle looked in satisfaction at the corpse, only disappointed that she had not been the one to kill him.

Tristan used Amalric's tunic to wipe the blood from his sword and sheathed it again. He looked at Isabelle, the glint slowly vanishing from his eyes. "Are you hurt?" he asked gruffly.

"A few bruises," Isabelle shrugged.

"You need to have that cut looked after," he judged.

Isabelle touched the cut on her cheekbone. She shut her eyes tightly.

"What's wrong?"

Isabelle opened her eyes again at the note of concern in his voice. "He wanted to mark me. If it leaves a scar…" her voice faltered and a look of panic appeared in her eyes. She clenched her jaw and stared defiantly at him. "I've been marked by two men in my life. One who wanted to subdue and own me and one who broke the first man's ownership mark." Her eyes left no doubt as to who she meant by the second man.

She stalked past him, muttering, "I'm going to find Dag."

Tristan followed her from a distance, not letting her out of his sight. This was his fault to begin with. He himself had told her she shouldn't be on her own and he had left her. He was an idiot.

He mulled over her words. Was that how she saw him? Was that why she didn't hate him? Because he had destroyed the pattern of scars on her back?

"Isabelle?" he called. She turned around. "Dag is with the Roman healer."

She nodded curtly and turned back. Tristan followed her.

Outside the healer's room Gawain and Bors waited. They jumped up when they saw Isabelle stalking towards them, Tristan not far behind. "What happened to you?" Gawain asked concerned, taking in the cut and the bruises on her face and neck.

"Amalric, that perverted son of a whore," Isabelle growled.

"Who?" Bors blinked.

"Briar sent someone to keep an eye on me. Obviously he found out what was going on. Is Dag in there?"

"Yes, but…"

Isabelle pushed past him and walked into the sick rooms. She found Dagonet bent over a child, examining his chest. "Dag?"

Dagonet looked up. "Who did that to you?" he asked, frowning angrily, but she didn't listen anymore. She stared at the three children in the room. "Isabelle?"

"What's going on?" she asked.

Dagonet sighed. "They are refugees from a village that was raided by Saxons. The only survivors."

"Oh God. I'll er…I'll come back later."

"No, sit down. I'll be with you in a minute."

Isabelle found a bench to sit on and watched Dagonet and the Roman fuss over the children. The warmth of the fire made her drowsy and she stared at the flames.

Amalric and his treatment of her brought back memories.

"_ANWEN!"_

_The fifteen-year-old girl cringed at the sound of her master's voice. She wiped the sweat from her brow and looked away from her sparring partner. Kallias gave her a sympathetic look, but couldn't stop what was going to come._

_Anwen knew what was going to come. Maurus had a particular gleam in his eyes when he looked at her. It had taken her not long to recognise it. It was the way the rogue soldiers had looked at her sister and Claire._

_Anwen sighed and bowed her head. "Yes, milord?"_

"_I expect you in my rooms in an hour. Clean yourself up first." Maurus turned around and walked back inside._

_Anwen didn't move and closed her eyes, overcome with dread. Her eyes snapped open when she felt a hand on her shoulder. "Don't fight him. It'll only make it worse," Kallias said quietly._

_Anwen suddenly understood where the scar on his face came from. "Not you too," she breathed. _

_The handsome slave from Greece smiled sadly. "Gender is of no concern to Maurus. I thought you knew that."_

"_I heard rumours, but…" _

_Kallias shushed her. "It is not important. Go and take a bath. You don't want to be late."_

_Anwen looked fearfully at him. _

"_Relax. Don't fight," Kallias urged her, knowing her temper._

_Anwen turned away from him and walked to the baths. An hour later she knocked on Maurus's door. _

"_Enter."_

_Anwen stepped inside and closed the door. Maurus waited for her; a small smile around his lips. Anwen braced herself._

"_Such arrogance in a slave," Maurus drawled. "Look at you, standing there like you are of high rank." He moved closer to you. "I own you, slave. I can do whatever I want."_

_Anwen stared past him with a stone face. Maurus grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. "You will obey me," he hissed._

_Anwen said nothing. Maurus's face contorted in anger and he slapped her. She wiped the blood from her mouth and stood up straight again. Did he really think he hurt her with that? _

_Maurus grabbed her arm and dragged her to the bed. He threw her on it. Anwen tried to scoot away when he reached for her. He got a hold on one of her legs and pulled her back to him. _

_Anwen screamed when he lay on top of her. Maurus backhanded her immediately. His hands disappeared under her clothes. Anwen squeezed her eyes shut when she heard the ripping of fabric. His hands were everywhere, stroking, pinching, and prodding. _

_Her hands flew to his chest when his fingers moved to the inside of her thighs and she pushed with all her might. No avail. She hissed when his fingers moved further up. __Maurus mumbled something. He held her down with one hand and grabbed a vial with the other. Anwen gagged when the sickeningly sweet smell filled her nose. _

_She revolted when his fingers resumed their prodding and then her world erupted in pain. Maurus made a satisfied sound. "A virgin. Such treasure."_

_He slammed into her and Anwen whimpered in pain. She didn't know how long it lasted and didn't care. She just waited for it to be over. When he was finished he rolled off her and told her she could go._

_She searched for her clothes and staggered away. Slowly she walked back to her room, careful with her movements because of the throbbing pain between her legs._

_Kallias waited for her with Amarante, the other Greek slave and the only other woman. _

_Amarante cleaned Anwen up and handed her a pouch filled with seeds. "Wild carrot. You don't want to have Maurus's child. One seed every day for as long as he summons you to his bed." _

_Anwen took one. Amarante watched her. "Good. Hide the pouch carefully."_

"Isabelle?"

The dozing woman jumped to her feet in fright, eyes brimming with tears. She had assumed a fighting position before she realised it was Dagonet. He frowned.

Isabelle stared at him for a moment. She sighed and slumped back on the bench. "You scared me."

"Forgive me. You looked like you were far away."

"I was."

"Let's get you cleaned up. What happened anyway?"

Isabelle sighed and told him what happened. "Please tell me that cut won't leave a scar."

"It won't," Dagonet soothed her. "It's a shallow cut. It will heal properly."

Isabelle sighed in relief. After Dagonet checked her abdomen, he sent her on her way. Gawain walked to her room with her.

"Where's Tristan?" she asked him.

"He left," Gawain answered. "Don't know where he went."

"Right. Well, thank you for walking with me. I'm just going to change. I'll see you later."

"Will you be all right?" Gawain asked, seeing how distracted she was. She had barely noticed his presence while he walked next to her.

"Yes. Thank you," she said absent-mindedly. Isabelle closed the door and turned around. She pulled the tunic over her head and threw it aside with a disgusted face. She stepped out of her boots and breeches.

Fortunately Celia had brought a washing basin earlier and she scrubbed herself clean, wanting to rid herself from Amalric. After she was satisfied, she rummaged through her chest and got out another tunic. She held it up for a moment and groaned. She knew she was supposed to wear a dress. Giving an annoyed sigh she cast the tunic aside and searched for a dress. She picked a simple linen dress in a dark blue colour.

She was still working on the laces at the sides of the dress when someone rapped quickly on the door and entered immediately after.

Tristan carried a pile of weapons and dropped them on her bed. "Your weapons. You need to defend yourself."

Isabelle quickly grabbed the loose ends of the dress and held them together. Tristan turned around when she didn't say anything. He cleared his throat when he saw her.

"Thank you, Tristan."

He nodded and his eyes fixed themselves on the cut. He set his jaw. "I should not have left you alone."

"It's not your fault. Amalric was just waiting for the right opportunity."

Tristan stepped closer and reached out, touching the cut. "Will it leave a scar?"

Isabelle shivered when his thumb traced her cheekbone. "No."

Tristan pulled back. "I'll wait outside. Arthur wants to see us in the Hall." He turned away from her and left the room.

Isabelle nodded at the closed door in reply, frowned at her own stupidity, and continued to lace the dress, feeling her cheek tingle.


	13. Storm

**Author's note: Lots of thanks to Morwen12, BornWithAFever, Zelinia (there will be more Kallias!), Greenday11 and lozcollie for reviewing! Sorry it took so long to update. I had a few difficult chapters to write for my other story, so I wanted to focus on that. Anywhoo, hope you all like the next chapter!

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Storm

After Arthur had been told about what happened, he refused to let her out of his sight – or the sight of one of his knights.

Nobody knew what Maurus would do next and though it frustrated Arthur, he could not go south and finish the matter. He didn't have enough soldiers as it was, thanks to years of Rome steadily draining forces from Britain. Saxons raided the lands in larger groups than ever. Some reports even spoke of skirmishes between Woads and Saxons on Roman territory. They could only guess what was going on north of the Wall.

None of this lessened the hostilities of the Woads towards the Romans though. They continued to venture south and attack not only travellers, but also villages.

The refugee children came from a village close to the coast that had been completely burnt down by Saxons. The boys – two brothers and their cousin – had fled into the woods when the attack came and somehow managed to reach Arthur's fort, although it was much farther from their village than the coastal fort. They were starved, dehydrated, and wounded, but Dagonet thought they would make it.

Arthur paced around the Great Hall, watched by his knights. Isabelle sat between Tristan and Gawain, wondering who the seat had once belonged to. She listened to the discussions with half an ear. One of these seats had probably belonged to Kay when he was still in service. He seemed to have taken a liking to her, although he knew what she was. Isabelle chuckled. Probably wasn't worried that she would stick a knife between his ribs, since he could squash her with one thumb.

He reminded her somewhat of Bors. Both were big and loud, and when they sat next to each other in the Tavern it was best to stay away and let the two enjoy their crude sense of humour.

Vanora had told her she loved it when Kay was in the Tavern. Somehow his presence prevented trouble from the Romans. It was true; Isabelle had seen Kay glare at a Roman soldier in the streets once and even she had backed away.

The knight to Isabelle's left shifted in his seat, causing her to stop musing. Tristan leaned his elbows on the Table. Isabelle glanced at him. He had the same kind of authority as Kay. Romans just stayed away from him.

"Celia will help you pack what you need, Isabelle."

"What?" Isabelle blinked.

"Weren't you listening?" Arthur asked.

"Er…a little," she admitted with red cheeks. Gawain snorted.

"We're leaving tomorrow morning to visit some of the villages. You're coming with me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not leaving you here alone," Arthur said sternly.

Isabelle perked up. "I get to go on patrol?"

"Yes."

"On a horse?"

Arthur paused for a moment to stare at her. "Yes, on a horse."

"Unless you want to ride an ass, but I don't think Lancelot will appreciate being ridden," Galahad grinned mischievously. Lancelot put his cup down with a bang, glaring at his laughing brothers.

Isabelle muffled her laughter. Lancelot flashed a charming smile at her. "You can ride me whenever you want, Isabelle."

Arthur sighed in exasperation.

"No more dresses," Isabelle grinned happily, pointedly ignoring Lancelot's invitation.

"I don't know why dresses bother you so much," Gawain said, rolling his eyes. "All women wear them."

Isabelle scowled at him. "Have you ever worn a dress?"

Gawain refused to dignify that question with an answer.

"I didn't think so," Isabelle said satisfied. "All that cloth just gets in my way."

"Pack for two weeks," Arthur intervened quickly before Gawain could continue the discussion. "Have you got your weapons back yet?"

"Yes, Tristan brought them," she confirmed.

"Good," Arthur said. He directed his attention to all of the knights present and finished, "I'll see you tomorrow." He rose from his seat, followed by the loud scraping of wood on stone when the knights did the same.

Lancelot caught up with Isabelle when she walked out of the Hall. "Interesting that you always choose that particular seat."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You figure it out," he winked and walked on.

Isabelle walked to her room, shaking her head over Lancelot's strange remark, and started to pack. She picked two tunics from her chest and an extra pair of breeches. She made an effort to finish packing quickly, knowing that Celia would probably try to get her to wear dresses. She threw a comb and a towel in her satchel and searched her room for a spare blanket.

After that she picked up her weapons. She drew her knives to see if they had any blemishes. She noticed Tristan had left some rags, oil and a whetstone on her bed. She smiled and settled on the sheets to take care of her weapons.

When she was finished she put everything on her table, except two daggers. She stuffed one in her boot and the other in the deep pocket of her dress.

Outside the sky had turned a dark grey. "It looks like the warm days are over," Gawain sighed from behind her. "Back to rain and wind."

Isabelle jumped up. "Where did you come from?"

"Sarmatia," he replied dryly.

"Very funny."

"I know," Gawain grinned. "So, looking forward to your trip?"

"Very much," she smiled.

"I know you've got your weapons back, but do you have any armour?"

"I didn't bring it here, but I don't have much anyway."

Gawain sighed. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To my room. You can't go out there in merely a tunic and a pair of breeches. I have some spare things from when I was younger."

Isabelle followed him back inside and to his room, which was next to hers. She looked curiously around. The bed had been hastily made and had two saddlebags on top of it. She took in the few personal belongings in the room, but could not make out anything that was typically Gawain.

She sighed. But then again, what did she really know about Gawain?

Gawain had turned his back on her, searching though some items on a shelf. He turned back, holding something wrapped in a piece of linen. "This should fit you. They were my first," he said, handing her the package.

Isabelle got out two gauntlets. She raised an eyebrow at the objects that were clearly made for slender wrists. Gawain shrugged. "I was twelve when I arrived here. Hadn't grown too much yet back then."

Isabelle smiled. "Thank you." She tried them on and found that they fitted rather well after she had laced them.

Gawain looked at her. "I don't think you'll fit any of my body armour though," he said with twinkling eyes.

"I don't fight with body armour anyway."

"But perhaps a leather vest. I think Galahad might…" Gawain strolled outside and knocked loudly on the opposite door.

"Not now!" Galahad bellowed from inside.

Gawain grabbed the door handle and stepped inside. He stopped in the doorway. "Gods on horses, Galahad! It's the middle of the bloody day," he said loudly.

Isabelle peeked around the blonde knight's frame and chuckled when she saw a flustered Galahad in bed with an equally flustered girl.

Gawain walked to his friend's clothes chest. "Do you still have that leather vest?"

"Somewhere in there. Do you mind, Gawain? I'm rather busy."

Gawain snorted. "I'm sure Rhian won't mind waiting a few minutes. Isabelle, get in here and try this on." He held up a vest made of thick leather.

"Maybe we should just…" Isabelle tried, avoiding to look at the bed, where Galahad had pulled the covers over his head with a loud groan.

"Don't listen to his whining. He does the same to me all the time," Gawain shrugged.

"But I don't. I'll try it on outside," Isabelle sighed. Gawain followed her outside. "So," she said when Gawain had closed the door, "all the time, eh? How often do you have wenches in your bed, sir?"

Gawain stared at her with wide eyes, until he realised she was teasing. He shook his head. "Four a night, at least. I am a man in my prime, of course," he smirked.

"Arrogant ass," Isabelle muttered and snatched the vest from his hand. She put it on and laced the vest together.

"It looks good," Gawain judged, observing how the vest hugged her curves. "I mean, it will protect you."

"Thank you, Gawain. This is very nice of you."

"You're welcome."

"I'll thank Galahad when he's…er…finished," she added with a glance at Galahad's door from where incoherent sounds and laughter came.

"Which will take a while. Let's get a drink if your throat is not too sore," Gawain suggested.

Isabelle touched the bruises. "I'll manage. Let me get this off first," she said, looking at the strange combination of dress, vest, and gauntlets.

"Fine, but I'd leave the dress on, if I were you," Gawain grinned.

Isabelle punched his arm and pushed past him to get to her room. Gawain followed her, chuckling. She placed the gauntlets and vest on her bed.

"Are you even allowed to go to the Tavern, now that you're supposed to be Arthur's friend and a respectable lady?" Gawain wondered.

"Thank you for your concern, good sir, but with you at my side no harm shall befall me," Isabelle sighed with her hand on her bosom. "Besides, as you pointed out, it's the middle of the bloody day. Everything that a lady shouldn't witness happens at night. Now lead the way, sir knight." She hooked her arm in his and dragged him outside.

"Yes, milady," Gawain grinned.

* * *

It was late when Isabelle was escorted back to her room. Rain was pouring from the sky and turned the street into a muddy pool. Isabelle lifted her skirts highly and jumped around the pools, wanting to get into the main building as quick as possible. 

Dagonet, who walked beside her, seemed oblivious to the fact that large quantities of rain were soaking him.

Isabelle grumbled. "The weather has been lovely for days; I get to go on patrol and what happens? It rains! This island hates me."

Dagonet smiled. "Don't take it too personally. It's been raining the whole fourteen years I've been here."

"So this country hates _you_. That's a relief," she grinned at him. She covered the distance to the door in a run and leaped through the entrance. The sentries nodded politely at her.

Dagonet followed her inside and the sentries saluted, though more reluctantly. Isabelle narrowed her eyes at the sentries. She had noticed before that the relationship between Roman legionaries and Sarmatian knights was cool, if not frosty.

Dagonet bluntly ignored the Romans and fell into step beside Isabelle. When they reached her room, they searched for unwelcome visitors. Isabelle lit a candle and closed the window. Dagonet waited outside until she had locked the door.

Isabelle undressed slowly. She grimaced when she saw the colourful bruise on her stomach. She placed a dagger under her pillow and one under the bed, before she crawled under the blankets.

She knew she was supposed to wear chemises in bed, as was proper for a lady, but then she would wake up in the middle of the night completely tangled in the wide clothing. Celia was shocked when Isabelle had refused to wear a chemise anymore. "But it's not decent," she had stammered.

"Decent for whom? You're the only one coming in my room," Isabelle had shrugged.

Isabelle chuckled when she remembered Celia's widened eyes when she had stepped into her bed in a completely indecent attire.

She blew out her candle and lay down, hearing a soft rumble of thunder in the distance. She heard Lancelot walk past her door, in female company. She laughed in her pillow, wondering who the woman that had let herself be ensnared by the cocky knight was.

She yawned and closed her eyes, drifting off into a deep sleep.

With an anguished cry she shot up straight again. Breathing heavily she looked around the dark room. It was the middle of the night. Lightning flashed and lit the room with an otherworldly light. She cringed when thunder followed immediately. The racket was enormous. She didn't understand why it had not woken her sooner.

Isabelle tried to calm her raging heart. It probably had to do something with her nightmare. She shivered as she recalled Maurus' panting voice in her neck and the sharp pain of his whip tearing her flesh.

More lightning flashed through the room, revealing threatening shadows. Isabelle laughed nervously. It was only a storm. The next roll of thunder made her sink under the blankets. She could almost feel Maurus' presence and the heavy weight of his eyes on her.

"Don't be ridiculous," she scolded herself, but the next flash of lightning showed a manlike shadow in the corner. Isabelle moaned and jumped out of bed, grabbing a shirt on the way. She dashed out of the room.

* * *

Tristan sighed in annoyance when another roll of thunder disturbed the night. He could never sleep during a thunderstorm. Too much damned noise. He slept so lightly the smallest sounds had him fully awake in a moment. 

To kill time he had cleaned his sword, which was entirely unnecessary as he had done it already in the afternoon, and repacked his saddlebags twice, but the storm had not subsided. It seemed to linger over the fort, probably to vex the scout personally.

Finally, he had given up and just went to bed to give his body some rest, if his mind could not.

His dagger was in his hand the moment his door swung open. He held himself still to appear to be asleep to the intruder. A figure slipped inside and closed the door silently. _Although_, Tristan thought, _in this storm he could have slammed the door shut and no one would have heard it._

The figure stood still for a moment, looking at the bed, and then moved over to the chair near the window. Tristan realised it was Isabelle when he heard her breathing in a calm moment of the storm. She drew her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees, staring out of the window.

Tristan waited to see what she would do, but when she had not moved an inch after a long time, he propped himself on one arm. "Isabelle?"

Isabelle yelped and jumped from the chair, her fists in front of her as if she were ready to fight.

"What's going on?" Tristan asked.

Isabelle stared at him, panting. Tristan could see her chest heaving under the shirt she was wearing. He quickly brought his eyes back to her face when he realised the shirt only reached halfway down her thighs.

_Some god must really have it in for me_, he thought. First the storm and now she was in his room, half-naked.

Isabelle still stared at him.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She blinked and lowered her fists. "I'm sorry. I thought you were asleep."

"Too much noise," he explained. "What are you doing here?"

Isabelle was thankful he couldn't see her flush. This was just too embarrassing. "I merely…" She stopped and straightened herself. "I had a nightmare and it seemed so real and then with the storm, I thought I saw…" She shrugged. "I just didn't want to be alone. I didn't think you would be awake. Sorry," she apologized awkwardly. She clutched her hands behind her back.

Tristan sighed and put the dagger under his pillow again.

Isabelle looked at the door. "I'll leave you alone, goodn…"

Tristan interrupted her. "You're going to catch a cold in that chair. Get over here."

"Why?"

"You can stay with me."

"But…I didn't want…" she protested.

"Last chance," Tristan said gruffly, considering himself a fool already. Inviting a half-naked woman in bed with him, what was he thinking? _Child_, he chided himself, _she's just a child_.

Isabelle looked at him, then at the door and back at Tristan. She was not considering getting in bed with him, not at all, she kept telling herself. But her feet already moved towards the bed and she sat on the edge.

"On the other side. I want to be able to reach my sword," Tristan told her. Isabelle crawled over his legs to the wall-side of the bed and leaned her back against the wall, drawing her legs under her chin again.

"What did you dream about?" he asked her.

Isabelle's fingers played with a loose thread in the woollen blanket. Tristan felt her fingers brush against his thigh, next to which she was sitting. This really had been a bad idea.

Isabelle sighed. "Maurus. Bad memories. Normally I don't get worked up like that, but this storm unnerves me." She glanced at him. He leaned back on his elbows and looked at her. She could see the raw scar from where Dagonet had had to cut the arrowhead out. It had not fully healed yet.

She averted her eyes when they felt the need to roam over the rest of his chest, but not before she had seen several more scars covering well-defined muscles.

A comfortable silence fell between them as they listened to the rolling thunder. Tristan noticed Isabelle relaxing. She slumped a little against the wall. Her feet pressed against his leg, causing him to tense. He dropped on his back and suppressed a groan.

Isabelle didn't notice and began to feel more and more at ease. When the storm had subsided a little, she began to yawn and nodded off. After a while her head had stopped shooting up straight again when she realised she was dozing off. She had laid her cheek on her knees. Tristan heard her deep breathing and knew she had fallen asleep.

She would have a killing ache in her back if she stayed in that position all night, so Tristan sat up straight and pulled her down to lay next to him. Isabelle mumbled something, but did not wake up. He was about to throw his sheets over the sleeping girl when he decided he needed to do something about his state of dress. He slipped stealthily out of bed and put on a pair of trousers so he would not scare the wits out of her in the morning. It would also be better for his own peace of mind.

Lancelot had better not find out about his chivalry or he would never hear the end of it. Tristan stepped back in the bed and pulled the covers up to her shoulders.

He lay on his back listening to Isabelle's easy breathing. He groaned out loud when she turned to the source of warmth in the bed and snuggled to his body. Her hand slid over his chest to his other side to stay close and she buried her head in his shoulder. Her breasts pressed against his arm and he cast his eyes heavenwards, cursing whatever god was responsible for this.

He picked up her arm and rolled her on her back. She sighed, but stayed there. He had almost fallen asleep himself when she rolled back and nestled herself against his body again.

Tristan sighed. This was going to be a long night.


	14. Patrol

**A/N: Finally an update! Thanks for all the reviews. You guys keep me going :)**

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**Patrol**

Tristan had been able to fall asleep when he had given in and put his arm around the sleeping girl in his bed. He woke up at the break of dawn and found Isabelle still clinging to him, sound asleep.

He could hear Lancelot bustling about in the room next to him. He should get up too. "Isabelle?" he said softly, moving away from her when he realised his body had reacted enthusiastically to the feel of a woman next to it. The woman in question had flung a leg over his hips and he felt the heat of her body through his breeches.

Tristan cursed under his breath and untangled himself from Isabelle's limbs. "Isabelle," he repeated, louder this time.

Isabelle mumbled something incomprehensible.

"Wake up, Isabelle."

She opened her eyes. "Why? It's still dark, for God's sake," she groaned. Her eyes widened when she noticed who had woken her. "Why are you in my room?" she asked Tristan. "No, better yet, why are you in my bed?"

"It's my bed," Tristan smirked.

"Then why am I in… Oh right." Isabelle felt her face heat up at the proximity of the still smirking man next to her. "I should just get…" she gestured at the door.

"Aye. We're leaving in less than an hour." Tristan stepped out of bed, grabbing a tunic. He needed water, lots of cold water. He quickly put on the tunic, which thankfully covered his hips.

Isabelle stumbled out of bed behind him, pulling her shirt down her thighs. Tristan turned around and almost closed his eyes. What last night's darkness had failed to show was visible in the pale morning light. He could see the outline of her breasts under the shirt and her well-formed thighs.

It was enough for his body to renew its enthusiasm. The idea that maybe Arthur's hell wasn't such a far-fetched idea fleetingly crossed Tristan's mind. He shook his head. She was not even seventeen, just a child. On top of that, this was the girl that had his scars on her back.

Isabelle cleared her throat, not at ease under his smouldering glare. "I'm going to my room. Thank you for letting me stay."

Tristan nodded and followed her to the door. She stepped outside and crossed the distance to her room, but froze when a laughing voice roared, "I don't believe it!" Lancelot leaned in his doorway, fully dressed and his saddlebags in his hand.

"There's nothing to believe," Isabelle said stiffly and marched past him.

"Tristan, care to explain?" Lancelot grinned.

"Lancelot," the scout warned in a dangerously low tone. "She just fell asleep in my room."

"Perhaps," Lancelot agreed, "but why was she in your room in the first place?"

Tristan narrowed his eyes at the grinning knight and stepped back in his room, pushing that question out of his head.

Isabelle closed her door, her cheeks flaming. It was obvious what Lancelot thought had happened. Knowing Lancelot, he would never cease to tease her with it. It was ridiculous; they had both been clothed. Partially, at least. She frowned. Why on earth would Tristan wear breeches in bed?

Chuckling over the strange habits of the scout Isabelle dressed in her own breeches and a tunic. She put the leather vest over it and completed her outfit with the gauntlets.

She traced a finger over the exotic engravings in the metal parts of the gauntlet. Horses and warriors. Isabelle smiled. Sarmatian.

She slipped in her boots and stuffed a dagger in each of them. Her knives were put in the sheaths on her belt, one on her left hip and one on her right. She combed through her hair and pulled it back in a thick braid.

On her way out she grabbed her satchel and the hooded cloak that had once belonged to the mistress and dashed out of her room. Tristan leaned against the wall, waiting for her. He pushed himself off the wall and they walked to the kitchens in silence.

Gawain, Galahad, Bors, and Lancelot were in the kitchens, putting provisions in their bags. Lancelot grinned deviously at Isabelle. "I trust you slept well," he asked seemingly politely.

Isabelle warned him with a glare. "Very well, thank you."

"I did not hear a noise come from your room, Tristan. She must be a silent one," Lancelot winked.

"I just fell asleep in his room," Isabelle said with gritting teeth. Tristan stared menacingly at his brother-in-arms.

"What's going on?" Galahad asked.

"Such a beautiful vision appeared in the hall when I stepped out of my room, Galahad," Lancelot answered him. "Isabelle in only a shirt…" Lancelot paused and raised an eyebrow, "…coming from Tristan's room."

Isabelle was sending furious glares in Lancelot's direction and missed the hurt appearing in Gawain's eyes for a moment.

"Back off, Lancelot," Bors said. "It's none of your business." He watched Tristan. A fall out between two knights was not something they needed on a mission and by the look of Tristan's clenched fist he was already pretty riled.

The burly knight frowned. Normally Tristan was not easy to get so riled he let it show. What had happened in that room?

"Excuse me, I'm going to the stables," Isabelle said coldly and turned on her heels, marching out of the kitchen.

Immediately Tristan's hand shot out and grabbed Lancelot's collar. "If you value your tongue, keep your mouth shut. She's but a girl." Tristan let go abruptly and stalked off.

"Girl?" Galahad repeated. "A woman is more likely. And here I thought Tristan was supposed to have the sharpest eyes of us all," he said semi-jokingly.

"He has. He's just trying to fool himself," Lancelot answered, rubbing his hand over his throat. Tristan was a dangerous one to cross. Lancelot cursed the fact that his mouth was quicker than his sense sometimes.

Gawain stuffed the last of his provisions in his bag and walked out of the kitchen without a word.

"What's bitin' up his arse?" Bors rumbled.

Galahad shrugged. "Isn't he always like this in the morning?"

"I suppose," Bors said. "Let's go lads."

* * *

Isabelle sat up straight in the saddle. They had left the fort at an easy canter, heading southwest. The air was cool and smelled of last night's rain and humid earth. 

She looked down at her saddle where Tristan had attached a sword and a small axe to it. She had protested until she saw how heavily armed the knights rode. Figuring this was not a courtesy of Tristan but necessity, she shrugged and thanked him. He gave her a nod and mounted his own horse.

Tristan rode up front, his hawk on his arm. Isabelle had gasped in surprise when the bird had landed on Tristan's outstretched arm and gasped even more when she saw him murmuring words to the bird and stroking it gently.

A comment from one of the barmaids now made sense. "If Tristan talked to me the way he talks to his hawk, I would hop on his arm and let me be stroked like that too," Elen had giggled at her friend Brenna.

At the time Isabelle had shrugged it off, not understanding, but now she saw what Elen had meant. Isabelle bit back a naughty smile. Elen had a point. Isabelle had caught herself staring at Tristan's hands quite a few times. Large, strong but slender hands; palms and fingers calloused by years of handling sword and bow.

"What are you smiling about?" Arthur asked as he slowed down to ride next to her.

Isabelle wiped the smile from her face. "Nothing, really." Somehow she thought that telling the Roman commander about her straying thoughts on his scout's hands was not the best of ideas. Her cheeks began to glow when her obstinate mind refused to be diverted and still mused about archer's hands on bare skin.

Isabelle cleared her throat. "It's a lovely morning."

Arthur gave her a strange look. "Very lovely. Apart from the mud, the mist, and those rain clouds."

"Except for that, yes." Isabelle stared straight ahead, determined not to flush. "Where exactly are we going?"

"Halis. It's a village fourteen miles southeast of the fort. We're taking the long way there, so that we can scout the lands for Woads or Saxons. We should arrive late in the afternoon. We'll spend the night and the next day there and ride to the next village after that."

Arthur spurred his horse and rode to the front of the group to speak to Lancelot. As the morning progressed, Isabelle discovered Arthur's tactics. One or two knights left the group to scout the surroundings in a wide flanking line and then returned to report, after which two other knights left.

The knights rode next to her to talk for a short time before they had to leave the group again. Galahad had asked her what had been going on in the kitchens. "Lancelot was just being an ass," Isabelle said, rolling her eyes, and explained what happened.

Galahad laughed. "Trust Lancelot to turn it into something torrid."

Isabelle chuckled.

Later that day Gawain rode next to her for a while. He had her slumping in her saddle with laughter within a few moments, making fun of her, the knights, and himself.

Fortunately the clouds only threatened with rain, making the ride to the village of Halis a pleasant one. There was no sign of Woads or Saxons.

They reached the village in the late afternoon, as Arthur had predicted. It was a fairly large village. Some buildings had stone walls, others were made of clay. Children were playing in the street that divided the village in two. When they saw the group of riders riding down the hill towards them, a few ran off to warn their parents for visitors, while others watched curiously.

"They're not really prepared for an attack, are they?" Isabelle asked Gawain.

"If we wanted to attack the village, we wouldn't ride so slowly," Gawain answered.

Several adults now walked quickly to the edge of the village, shooing the children into their homes. An old man stood in front, waiting for the knights.

"The village elder," Gawain informed Isabelle.

Arthur dismounted and clasped the elder's arm. "Maredudd. All is well?"

"Artorius. Glad to see you in good health again," the elder said warmly. "All is well indeed."

"This is the village where Arthur grew up," Gawain said to Isabelle.

"Really?" Isabelle said curiously. "Does he have any kin?"

Gawain shook his head. "No. His father, Uther, died when he was a young boy. He was also commander of the fort. His mother was a Briton; she died when Woads raided the village. He was an only child."

Isabelle looked at Arthur, who was listening to Maredudd. So Arthur was only half-Roman. No one had told her about that. She knew it was probably her prejudice against Romans, but she couldn't help feeling that she had found an explanation for his un-Roman behaviour.

The remainder of the day Arthur spent discussing with Maredudd. The knights had made themselves comfortable. Isabelle, having been introduced as a friend of Arthur's, was invited to stay the night in Maredudd's house with Arthur. The knights had found a place to sleep in other households.

Isabelle was surprised how easily the knights blended in the village life. Dagonet had wandered off with Bors and Gawain to help building a house for a newlywed couple. Tristan had gone off scouting and hunting for dinner. Galahad and Lancelot were teaching some of the village boys basic fighting. Isabelle watched the children spar with sticks while Galahad and Lancelot were shouting instructions.

She also watched Arthur with a growing admiration. He treated Maredudd and the villagers as equals, was kind to curious children, and seemed to genuinely listen when people came to him. Her decision to postpone forming her opinion of him had been a good idea she judged. Despite being half-Roman she had a high regard of him.

At dusk Tristan returned with four rabbits and a deer. After skinning the animals, some women took over from him and prepared a meal. Others brought bread and ale, dried fruit and cheese. Logs were placed around the fire where the deer was being roasted.

Gawain noticed Isabelle's befuddled face and chuckled. "They like to do a large meal when Arthur visits. Come on, let's get something to eat."

An old woman gave them a piece of bread and cheese, but told them the meat wasn't ready yet. They settled on a log next to the other knights. Gawain nudged Isabelle and pointed at Galahad, who was sitting next to them.

A little girl, a toddler still, had taken a fancy to the youngest knight and had fallen asleep against his side. His face showed he didn't know whether to be endeared or annoyed.

Lancelot smirked at Isabelle. "Now I know how Tristan must have felt last night. He had a toddler sleeping next to him too."

Isabelle threw her bread at him. "I am not a toddler!"

Lancelot caught the bread with one hand and munched down on it. "Thank you," he grinned. Isabelle huffed. She looked around for Tristan. She saw him on the other side of the fire, walking to the newlywed couple. He gave them the skins of the rabbits and deer with a nod.

After accepting some bread and fruit from them he walked to the logs where the knights were sitting. He stopped and raised his eyebrows at the lovely scene Galahad made with the girl.

"Doesn't it remind you of something?" Bors teased. Tristan glanced at Isabelle and bit back a grin.

"Unbelievable," she grumbled.

Tristan noticed her flustered cheeks and smirked behind his hair. He doubted the toddler had the same effect on Galahad as Isabelle had had on him. The smirk was exchanged for a frown when he tore a piece off his bread. Gods, she was just a girl.

Galahad got a harassed look about him when the little girl tried to crawl in his lap. "Here, Isabelle, you take her. You're a woman," he said and heaved the child over to Isabelle.

"I thought I was but a toddler a few moments past," she answered annoyed.

"Please?" Galahad pleaded, holding the girl up. "I don't know what she wants."

"She just wants…oh, for heaven's sake, give her to me," Isabelle sighed and pulled the child in her lap. The girl opened her big blue eyes, staring at Isabelle. Her lip trembled for a moment, but when Isabelle rocked her gently, she put her thumb in her mouth and gazed contently at the older girl.

"She's staring at me," Isabelle mumbled to Gawain.

"She likes you," he answered.

Isabelle rolled her eyes. She shifted the child in her arms, letting her lean against her chest. The little girl snuggled closer. Feeling softened, Isabelle put her arms protectively around her.

"I'm sorry, milady," a young woman said, walking towards her. "I hope she's not bothering you." The woman had two more small children clinging to her skirts and a baby in her arms. "I can take her from you."

"No, no, it's fine," Isabelle said. "You look like you're busy enough. I'd be happy to look after her for a while."

"Thank you, milady."

"Please, just call me Isabelle," the assassin insisted, cringing inwardly. "What's your daughter's name?"

"Mari. I'll come and get her later when I've put these little ones to sleep. Thank you." The woman walked away.

"Hello, Mari," Isabelle smiled.

Mari smiled back, her thumb still in her mouth. "Song?" she asked.

"What?"

"Sing a song," Mari asked again.

"A song? Me?" Isabelle said surprised. "I'll have to think." After a few moments her face lit up. "I remember one." Isabelle bent her head so she could look at the little girl and began to sing softly.

_Lay down_

_Your sweet and weary head_

_Night is falling_

_You've come to journey's end_

_Sleep now_

_And dream of the ones who came before_

_They are calling_

_From across a distant shore_

_Why do you weep_

_What are these tears upon your face_

_Soon you will see_

_All of your fears will pass away_

_Safe in my arms_

_You're only sleeping_

With a smile Isabelle noticed Mari had fallen asleep. Gawain, still sitting next to her on the log, had listened to her soft, almost whispering voice. "What song was that?" he asked quietly, not wanting to wake Mari.

"It's a song my sister used to sing for me before I went to sleep," Isabelle answered. "I don't know what it's called, but she said it was from a story she liked very much."

"What language is it? I've never heard it before."

Isabelle stared into the fire, knowing she could not reveal it was English. "It's my mother's language. My father was from Fr… Gaul, but she wasn't. I don't remember much; I don't know what language it is."

"Sing me the rest of the song," Gawain requested.

Isabelle blushed, but did as he asked. Halfway through the song she put her cheek on Mari's head and looked at Gawain.

_Don't say_

_We have come now to the end_

_White shores are calling_

_You and I will meet again_

_And you'll be here in my arms_

_Just sleeping_

The fire was reflected in his blue eyes. "Beautiful," he smiled after she was finished.

"You don't even know what it means," Isabelle protested.

"Well, lady Isabelle, enlighten me," he teased. Isabelle translated the song for him. Gawain nodded. "I was right. It's beautiful. But I like it better in your language."

"So do I."

"And when will your ship carry you home?" Gawain asked casually.

"No ship for me," Isabelle said. "I've no home to go back to."

"You can always go to Rome with Arthur, or to Sarmatia with us. Or stay here; Bors intends to take over Britannia with his army of bastards."

"I'm afraid I'd make a lousy Sarmatian," Isabelle grinned. "My backside is already sore from one day in the saddle."

Gawain laughed. "Don't worry. Your backside will turn into tough leather eventually. Trust me, I know."

Isabelle muffled her laughter. "So do I."

Gawain opened and closed his mouth. "I suppose you do," he grinned.

"What are you two laughing about?" Galahad asked suspiciously.

"Gawain's arse," Isabelle said innocently.

Galahad choked and stared at her. Isabelle stared back, until Galahad cleared his throat. "Good gods, remind me never to ask that again."

"Very well. Galahad, never ask questions about Gawain's arse again," she said loudly.

The other knights stopped talking and turned their heads.

"You're an evil woman," Galahad grumbled.

"My pleasure," Isabelle smirked.

"Do we _want_ to know, Galahad?" Lancelot asked exasperated.

"Probably not," the youngest knight sighed.

"How come you don't remember much? It's not that many years past," Gawain asked, resuming their earlier conversation.

Isabelle shrugged. "There was no point, really. Everything that I remembered was gone and I would never be able to go back. I was a slave; so why bother remembering things that would only hurt?"

"Galahad treasures his memories from home," Gawain pondered. "He remembers them much more clearly than I do."

"That's because he _has_ a home to go back to. Even after fifteen years. I was sold into slavery, which lasts a lifetime."

"Fifteen years is a long time too. But it's different for Galahad; freedom is enough for me."

"But you have the choice to go home," Isabelle said.

Gawain nodded. "And you don't?"

"No."

"There's always a choice, Isabelle." Gawain smiled. Isabelle averted her eyes and looked at the fire. "Maybe you just don't see it yet," he added under his breath.

* * *

A/N: Ah, yes, we all recognize the theme song from Return of the King: Into the West. I love that film and I love that song, and it gives you a bit more on when Isabelle and Anna are from. Hope you liked it; let me know! 


	15. Titus

**A/N: Happy New Year everyone!

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**Titus**

With bleary eyes Isabelle stared at Tristan the next morning. "Now? Are you mad? The sun has not even fully risen yet. Besides, I am suffering from the mother of all headaches and you want me to go and shoot a bow!"

"You need to learn," Tristan answered.

"I can't even see straight. There's three of you," Isabelle protested.

Tristan snorted. "Then you'll have more targets to shoot at."

Isabelle grinned. "You'll let me shoot at you? Give me a moment; I'll be ready in a minute."

After she had freshened herself up, put some bread in her squirming stomach, and vowed never to drink Maredudd's personally brewed mead again, she searched for Tristan. She found him near a large tree at the edge of the village, checking the fletching of his arrows.

"Bloody scout with his bloody ideas," Isabelle grumbled when she saw him look up with an impassive face.

Tristan inclined his head to her to let her know he had heard her greeting.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes and muttered something under her breath. Tristan decided to ignore the rather insulting suggestion about the unnatural things his mother had done with a horse, resulting in his birth. With a small smirk he gave her his bow, which was more difficult to handle than Galahad's old one he had borrowed for her training.

"Take your position," he ordered.

Isabelle immediately took the position he had only explained once before and tried to draw the bowstring. When it proved to be even more difficult than before, she looked befuddled at the bow.

Tristan kept his face blank when she glanced up at him. When he raised a questioning eyebrow at her she clenched her jaw and drew the bow with great effort. She held the bow drawn, arms trembling and breathing strained, until Tristan gestured she could stop.

"Not bad," he said. He let her draw the bow a dozen times more before he gave her the other one.

Isabelle glared menacingly at him when she had no trouble handling this bow, but she refused to say anything. She stuck her chin in the air and waited for him to continue.

Tristan felt a smirk tugging at his lips when he bent down and pulled an arrow from his quiver. "Watch."

He notched the arrow, pulled his right arm back and aimed for the tree. "The same as before. Look at what you're aiming at, not the arrow tip. Always keep your eyes on your enemy. Draw the string, keep your hand still at your face…" He let the string go and the arrow hit the tree with a satisfying thud.

Tristan gave her another arrow.

Isabelle notched it on the string. "Like this?"

"Aye. Place your thumb over your index finger, not under it." He adjusted the grip of her bow hand. "Now draw it."

Isabelle pulled her arm back.

"Not so tense," Tristan admonished. "Relax your arm, keep your elbow up like this."

Isabelle sighed, wishing she could just go back to knife-fighting.

"Look at the tree. I want you to aim for my arrow."

Isabelle snorted. "What do I look like? Robin Hood?"

"What?"

"Never mind," she mumbled quickly.

"Aim," he commanded.

Isabelle looked at the tree.

"Now gently let the string go. Gently."

Isabelle had to bite back a grin as she was told to be gentle by the least gentle man she knew.

Knowing exactly what she was thinking, Tristan snorted. "Concentrate," he barked.

Isabelle looked at the tree and the arrow again, aimed, and fired her own arrow. It missed the tree by three feet, at least.

"Not bad," Tristan said.

Isabelle threw him an incredulous look. "I missed."

"Of course."

Isabelle closed her eyes for a second to calm down. "Could you please tell me how to _not_ miss my target?"

"Practise."

Without a word Isabelle bent down and pulled another arrow from the quiver. She notched it on her bow and fired again. The arrow flew past the tree again, this time on its other side.

Tristan let her struggle until the quiver was empty. He told her to retrieve the arrows and start again.

"No, keep both your eyes open," he said, when she squeezed one eye shut. Isabelle opened her eye again and resumed trying to hit the tree.

* * *

"This time I'm going to hit the tree," she told him about an hour later. She checked her posture three times, aimed carefully and let the arrow fly. She missed, again. 

Disappointed, she stared at the tree. "Are you sure the tree doesn't move, Tristan?" she groaned miserably.

"Another arrow," he ordered. Sighing, she picked one.

Tristan stepped behind her and adjusted her bow arm, a little higher than Isabelle had held it herself. "Stand up straight, and turn your hips like this." He placed his other hand on her waist to correct her posture.

Isabelle felt him move his hips behind her and she imitated him. A faint blush crept over her cheeks and she was thankful he couldn't see it.

"Keep your shoulders down," Tristan mumbled, staring at the flesh of her neck exposed by the loose collar of her shirt. "Elbow up here. Pick a point on your face and draw the string up to that point."

"Here?" Isabelle asked softly, her breathing slowing when Tristan's arm guided her string hand so that she held it just below her cheekbone.

"Aye." His beard tickled her ear. "Now aim."

Isabelle found it difficult to concentrate with him so close behind her and the squirming feeling in her stomach.

"Good," Tristan said, and tore his gaze away from the milky white skin just below her ear, forcing himself not to think about how her skin would feel under his hands and lips. "Both eyes open, look at your target… Loose."

Isabelle let the string go. The arrow hit the tree with a loud thud.

"Hah!" she exclaimed. "I did it!"

She turned her head to Tristan with a bright smile. He squeezed her waist in response. "Again," he ordered.

Feeling more confident now, Isabelle notched the arrow and after a few minor corrections from Tristan she hit the tree again. He didn't have to tell her to get another arrow this time. She had it notched onto her string in no time.

"Don't hunch," he said and placed his hand on her shoulder to keep it relaxed. He felt the slight shiver that ran through her body at his touch. His fingers brushed against her neck.

Isabelle closed her eyes.

"My, my, aren't we up bright and early?" Bors roared, strolling towards them.

Immediately Tristan stepped back. Isabelle blinked at the sudden loss of warmth behind her. She grinned to hide her confusion about the unfamiliar feelings. "Feeling all right there, Bors? I heard you were too pissed to distinguish your head from your arse last night."

"That foul mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble some day," the burly knight threatened, but with a grin on his face. He looked at the bow in her hand. "Isn't that the bow we gave Galahad when he turned twelve?"

Isabelle whirled around. "You gave me a child's bow?" she hissed at Tristan.

"No," he denied. "Bors is trying to draw you out." With a smug smirk he added, "This is the bow we gave Galahad when he turned fourteen."

Isabelle threw the scout a death glare.

"Come on, Isabelle, you can think of ways to kill Tristan later," Bors grinned. "Arthur wants him to scout."

Tristan nodded and walked away. "Practise," he called over his shoulder.

Bors sighed. "So, how long did he make you struggle before he told you how to do it?"

"Ninety-one arrows long," Isabelle muttered.

"That's harsh, even for him," Bors laughed. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

Bors looked sceptical.

"Well, I may have made a comment about his conception that I think he heard. It involved his mother and her husband's horse," Isabelle admitted grudgingly.

Bors's raucous laughter could be heard throughout the village.

* * *

Isabelle spent most of the day practising with her bow. After dinner she headed for her bedroll near the fire for an early night in, but found she could not fall asleep. 

She thought about what had happened that day with Tristan, and the squirming sensation in her stomach returned when she remembered the tickle of his beard and the feel of his fingers on her skin. She shifted a little and stared into the fire, a face appearing before her mind's eye. A face she knew she would never see again.

Killed. Another life taken by Maurus.

"_Come in!" the voice called._

_Anwen stepped through the door and bowed. _

"_Ah, the girl my father brought for me," the young man said in a bored voice. "Tell me, are you really as much fun as his good friend Maurus says?"_

"_If my…" Anwen choked on the words. She still couldn't say them. "If he says so."_

_The young man raised an eyebrow. "Your master, you mean?" he taunted, picking up her struggle with the words._

_Anwen's head shot up and she glared at the senator's son before she could stop herself. _

"_Well, well, well," Titus Leonius, second son of senator Varius Leonius purred. "You are feisty. Do you like being here? Do you like being brought before me as a piece of meat to pleasure this spoilt son of a corrupt senator?"_

"_What?" Anwen stuttered in shock._

_Titius stood up from his bed he had been sprawled on and stretched himself like a cat. He ran his hands through his black hair. "What's your name, fiery slave?"_

"_Anwen," she said curtly, insulted by the way he addressed her. _

"_I am Titus, Anwen," the young man said. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He grabbed her hand and kissed it._

_Anwen jerked her hand back. _

_Titus smirked. "You don't like me, do you?"_

"_I'm a slave. I have no feelings, nor opinions," Anwen muttered, bowing her head. She could be brought to death at least three times for the insolence she had shown this man already._

_Titus chuckled. "Very convincing. It would be even better if you unclenched your fists and stopped trembling with rage, my dear Anwen."_

_Anwen bowed even deeper. Why was he playing with her like that?_

_Titus walked around her like a predator. "You're a pretty thing. One of the few admirable qualities of my father is that he has taste. In fact, I reckon it's the only admirable quality he has. You're a bit on the peaky side, but I guess Maurus doesn't feed his slaves that well, does he?"_

_Anwen didn't respond and kept her eyes averted._

"_So, what happened? Did my father see you prancing around Maurus's estate and decided that he should have you?" Titus asked, determined to lure out the fire inside the young girl._

"_Maurus offered me to him," Anwen answered. She looked up with a feral grin. "But when the senator learned I had almost unmanned one of Maurus's other slaves when the pig tried to rape me, he decided I would be better suited for you… my lord." She curtsied in a mock subservient way._

_Titus was so surprised by her response he burst out laughing. Under the impression she had just earned a painful death, Anwen looked up in confusion._

"_I like you," he said, still grinning. "So you're one of Maurus's assassins? I'm surprised he lends you to me then."_

"_Maurus owed your father a favour," Anwen said stiffly._

"_Ah, yes, connections, favours, bribes, etcetera," Titus said bored. "Well, just leave if you don't want to be here."_

"_What?" Anwen said bewildered, caught off-guard by the sudden change of subject._

"_Unlike my father and your master I like my women willing," Titus said disdainfully._

"_I can't leave," she said._

"_Why is that?"_

"_He'll kill me if I don't do what he has ordered."_

"_I see. Just kill me and run off then," Titus suggested cheerfully. _

_Anwen stared at the young man. Was he insane?_

"_No, I have all my wits," Titus responded with a grin._

"_And where would I go? Live in a city and become a whore? No one offers a stranger work, let alone housing, Titus Leonius," Anwen spat bitterly._

"_Don't you have family you can go back to?"_

"_No, my sister killed herself. She was trained to be an assassin as well, but could not live with herself for it."_

"_And you? You _can_?" Titus asked._

"_If I don't kill them, someone else will. And at least now I can avenge myself on a few Romans."_

_Titus whistled. "You don't like Romans."_

"_No."_

"_Kill me then, I'm Roman."_

"_I'll be executed if I do that."_

"_So?" Titus retorted. "You have nothing to live for."_

_Anwen gritted her teeth. "I don't want to die."_

"_Ah," Titus said satisfied, his pale blue eyes twinkling. They were a startling combination with his raven hair and olive complexion. "Well, take a seat then, and we'll have a chat until the morning when you can leave safely."_

"_You won't… you're not going to…" Anwen stuttered in surprise._

"…_make you spread your legs for me?" Titus asked rudely. "I prefer my women screaming in ecstasy, not agony, thank you very much. So sit down, drink some wine, and tell me something about you."_

"_There's not much to tell," Anwen said carefully and sat down._

"_Where do you come from?" Titus asked, draping himself over his bed again. He poured some wine in a cup and offered it to the uncomfortable young girl._

"_Gaul," she answered._

"_What a coincidence. My grandmother came from Gaul. A Frank. It's where the pretty blue eyes come from," he grinned confidently._

_Anwen smiled hesitantly. She still was confused about this strange man. He was Roman to the core, arrogant, self-assured, spoilt, but at the same time carelessly blunt and honest about what he really thought about the Roman way of life. Which wasn't altogether positive._

_Titus managed to make the young assassin feel at ease, telling her stories about his childhood in Rome, where he had spent much time with his Frankish grandmother, who could make the highest Roman official squirm under her sharp gaze and lashing tongue._

_They spent most of the night talking and laughing. Anwen hadn't felt this carefree in years._

_She told him about her training as an assassin, but stopped when she arrived at the first time Maurus had raped her._

"_And then he made you come to his bed," Titus finished for her._

"_Yes," Anwen mumbled. She put her cup on the small table, feeling slightly dizzy. She was not accustomed to wine._

"_May I kiss you?" he asked suddenly._

"_What?" Anwen asked, panic tightening her throat. He would take her after all._

"_Not to drag you to my bed," Titus said quickly, seeing the fear in her eyes. He stopped himself from cursing. "To show you. You've never been kissed, have you?"_

_Anwen shook her head._

"_Then let me show you what it's like. What it should be like." Titus got up from his bed and held his hand out to her. Anwen looked at it for a long time. Hesitantly, she placed her hand in his. He pulled her to her feet._

_Anwen backed away when her body hit his. Titus let her. He raised his hand to her face. She turned her head from him._

"_Anwen, look at me," Titus said softly. "I'm not going to hurt you."_

_She looked back. His thumb traced her bottom lip. "You have a mouth made for kissing," he mumbled. "Luscious, red, soft…"_

_Anwen shivered. Titus moved his fingers to her jaw, but still kept his body at a distance. His hand caressed the soft skin of her neck, before he slid his hand back up her face, over her cheekbone and nose, down to her lips again._

"_You try it," he said to her._

_Anwen brought her hand up to his face and felt the texture of his lips. She smiled when he kissed her fingers. She felt every line of his face, edging closer like a moth drawn to fire. _

_Titus took one of her hands and kissed the inside of her wrist. Anwen jumped up when his tongue darted out and tasted her skin. __She licked her lips subconsciously. _

_Titus smiled. "Let me kiss you."_

_Anwen hesitated when he abandoned her wrist and brought his mouth close to hers. _

"_May I?" he asked. _

"_Aye," Anwen whispered._

_Titus brushed his lips against hers, nothing more than a feathery feeling. When she didn't back away from him, he repeated his action. He pressed a firmer kiss on her lips, before he moved away._

"_How was that?" he asked._

"_It was nice," she mumbled._

"_Would you like me to do it again?"_

_Anwen lifted her face up to him in response. Titus kissed her again. This time she kissed him back._

_He opened his mouth and licked her bottom lip. He played with her lips until he felt her tongue meet his. He deepened the kiss._

_Anwen enjoyed the feeling of his tongue stroking and tangling with hers. Titus smirked smugly when a moan escaped her throat. He slid his hand around her neck and caressed her skin._

_Her breathing became more rapid and she shuffled a little closer to Titus, who responded by wrapping an arm around her waist._

_He broke the kiss and moved his lips to her neck, kissing and sucking the skin between his teeth. He traced her collarbone with his tongue before he mumbled to her skin, "I can show you more. So much more."_

_Anwen tilted her head back, her eyes shut in pleasure she could not have imagined._

"_Do you want me to show you more?" Titus asked._

_"Aye," Anwen breathed, "more."_

_Titus's hands moved to the laces of her dress, revealing white skin as he peeled the dress off her bit by bit. _

Footsteps ripped Isabelle from her memory. She looked at the door, clutching her dagger in her hand. She relaxed when it was Arthur who bent down so he would not hit his head and stepped through the doorway.

Maredudd and his wife followed him and they bustled around, getting ready for the night.

Isabelle stared into the fire again. Titus had shown her that night what pleasure was. They had parted the next morning in comradely affection. She'd been more than surprised when Titus had asked for her a month later. Because Maurus was under the impression she hated the younger son of the senator, he'd sent her to the Leonius estate again.

She'd been more bold that time and relished in the fact she could make him moan like he made her. They had fun as well. Titus had a razorsharp sense of humour and, though he could be merciless and rude with his comments, feared not to examine himself as well.

They had met several times like that. Titus shamelessly used his father's power over Maurus to make him bring the young assassin to his estate. She knew Maurus did not like it one bit. He considered her his property and he hated the fact that the spoilt son of Varius made him abide his wishes.

Isabelle closed her eyes and sighed. And then Maurus had found out she had grown attached to the young man. She shuddered when she remembered his rage. He'd sent Briar to the Leonius estate and locked her in a cell.

Four days later Maurus had dragged her to the training court, where Briar waited for her. He'd held up Titus's head and thrown it at her feet. She'd fainted.

When she'd come to, her wrists were tied to the pole used for whippings. Maurus had wrapped her hair around his hand and jerked her head back, hissing in her ear that she was his property.

Titus's head still lay in the sand. Her one escape from her hell. She'd closed her eyes and knew she would never be free from Maurus in this life.

She hadn't moved one inch when Maurus whip tore her skin. She hadn't shuddered when the blood dripped down her back and legs. She hadn't flinched when Maurus cut the wounds deeper with his knife to make a pattern.

She'd only seen Titus's face, laughing and mocking, blissful with pleasure, trying to draw her out of her shell, interested in what she had to say.

Lying facedown on her bed, while Amarante and Kallias nursed the horrific wounds on her back, the young girl had lost all hope Titus had invoked and convinced herself it was best to just die. Her spirit and temper were lost as Titus was.

Tears leaked from under Isabelle's lashes. She opened her eyes. "I'm sorry, Titus," she whispered. "Find peace."


	16. Woads

**A/N: Lots of thanks to BornWithAFever, TheUsed88, MORWEN12, Some Crazy Lady, Mandamirra10, and maroonraspberry for reviewing! I really appreciate your thoughts and opinions. Hope you like the next chapter!

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**Woads**

Isabelle mounted her horse the next morning and waited for Arthur to say his goodbyes. The knights were waiting around her; Tristan had already gone off scouting.

Arthur took off at a canter, wanting to reach the next village before dark. The sky was still grey, but it was warmer than the days before. Isabelle lifted her face to the wind, enjoying the feel of it running through her hair.

With a wide smile she let her horse gallop over the small path Arthur was leading them. For the first time she knew with certainty she had made the right choice by not following her sister in death, by allowing Arthur to drag her from the pool of misery she had almost drowned herself in. The pool she had created herself after Titus's death.

After Maurus had cut his ownership into her, she'd never fought him again. She had tried to kill herself, but couldn't. She had decided she would just wait for the time an assignment went wrong and she would be executed. She wouldn't fight.

Isabelle straightened herself. That part of her life was over. She would fight again. She would live again. "Farewell, Titus," she whispered. The wind blew her hair from her face, caressing her skin with cool fingers.

Arthur looked behind him. Isabelle cast a brilliant smile at him. He gave her a nod and smiled back. Something was different about her. She looked happy, genuinely happy. Arthur had seen her spirits lift in the time she had spent at the fort, but there had always been a shadow behind her eyes. For the first time that shadow had vanished.

He knew he owed much to his knights for being able to lure her out of the prison she had put herself in. Now they saw a fascinating combination of girl and woman, someone who wanted to shake her past from her and who was in search of a future.

Arthur doubted if she would ever be able to forget her past; it had left scars – both physical and mental – that would never fully heal. _But_, he pondered, _judging by the way Gawain looks at her, she will not have to do it on her own_.

At that moment Tristan appeared over the hill, riding like the devil himself was chasing him. "Woads!"

"Where?" Arthur shouted back.

"Just over the hill. Right behi –" Tristan was cut off as he had to duck from an arrow that flew past his head. A group of about thirty Woads ran down the hill. War cries vibrated through the air.

Isabelle felt her hair stand on edge. "They're really blue!" she exclaimed in surprise.

Gawain took a moment to give her an incredulous look, before he followed his commander in the attack. "Stay back!" he roared at her.

"Stay back?" Isabelle sputtered. What did he think she was? A damsel in distress? She drew a knife and galloped after the knights, who had already engaged in battle.

Tristan and Galahad picked the Woads off one by one with their arrows, not missing once. They rode on their horses at the edge of the fight like predators dancing around their prey. The others used their advantage of being on a horse to hack down at the Woads, who were trying to drag the knights from the saddle.

Gawain looked up in shock when he saw Isabelle's horse storm past him. The girl threw herself from its back right on top of a Woad. "What the hell are you doing?" he bellowed.

Isabelle scrambled to her feet with a vicious snarl and drew her second knife. The Woad she had dragged to the ground lay on his back, blood dripping from his neck.

"Isabelle!" Gawain shouted. "Get on your horse!"

"I don't know how to fight on a horse!" she shouted back.

Gawain didn't have time to tell her he didn't want her to fight at all. A Woad had attached herself to his leg and her knife was dangerously close to the tendons of his knee. Growling he swung his axe and hit the Woad on her shoulder. She dropped her knife with a cry of pain. Gawain jerked his axe from her collarbone and finished her with a blow to her head.

Isabelle was circling around a large and muscular man. She grinned tauntingly at him and twirled her knife in her hand, trying to make him lose his calm.

He raised his sword with a cry of rage and brought it down to her neck. Isabelle's knives flashed upwards and caught the sword in the V they made. Isabelle kicked out with all her might and heard the Woad's knee break with a satisfying cracking sound. She smacked the sword away with one knife and lunged at the Woad's throat with the other.

The Woad sank to his knee. Isabelle blocked the swing of his weapon and stabbed her knife deep in the flesh of his neck. She turned around to search for a next victim.

Tristan aimed at the Woad that attacked Isabelle from behind. She whirled around, but his arrow was faster. The man flew backwards, the scout's arrow protruding from his throat. Isabelle nodded her thanks.

Tristan gritted his teeth. Idiotic girl. She had never been in a battle before. What a success it would be to have her brought back from the dead, only to be killed by a Woad. He hung his bow on his saddle and dismounted.

Isabelle didn't see him. She had turned her back on the scout to defend herself from a new attacker. This Woad was a lot faster than the previous ones. She had to defend herself from his venomous attacks with all her strength, but still she was driven backwards. The Woad lashed out and pain flared up in her upper arm. Isabelle barely held on to her knife, but managed not to drop it. She clenched her jaw against the burning pain.

The Woad smirked triumphantly at her. Isabelle growled and began a new attack. Her knife slashed across his chest, but failed to do much damage. She ducked under his next swing and grabbed his wrist, bringing her other hand up in an underhand movement and thrusting her knife in his belly. The Woad groaned in agony when she twisted the knife and jerked it back. Blood gulfed from his mouth, spilling over his chin and chest. Isabelle gave him a final stab in the neck and pushed him away from her.

She found Tristan in front of her, looking at her as if he wanted to murder her himself. Suddenly he whipped to his right and riposted the blow to his head. Isabelle watched in awe as he brought his opponent to his knees in two elegant but deadly strikes and left the man convulsing in his struggle with death.

He turned back to Isabelle, whose jaw had slackened. He quickly looked around and saw that the last Woads were fleeing back over the hill. Galahad shot the last fighting Woad.

Tristan wiped his sword clean on the trousers of the dead Woad before he glared so angrily at Isabelle that she instinctively took a step back. "Why did you disobey Gawain?" he asked in a dangerously low tone.

Tristan's face might have been stoic like usual, but the anger radiating from him was more than enough to intimidate Isabelle.

His choice of words made her bristle immediately however. Disobey? _Disobey? _"What did you want me to do? Sit back and fan myself? Faint at the sight of Woads?"

"You're not a warrior," Tristan said with clenched jaws.

"But I do know how to fight," Isabelle retorted.

"Countless knights have died at the hands of Woads. _They_ knew how to fight as well," Tristan hissed.

"Isabelle!" Arthur called and stalked towards her. "Are you hurt?"

"A little," she answered.

Tristan snorted and turned around to retrieve his horse.

If Isabelle's looks could kill, he would have been dead before he hit the ground. She stopped glaring at the scout for a moment and looked at her arm.

"Dagonet!" Arthur barked.

Dagonet ripped the tear in her shirt even further so he could examine the cut. "It's not very deep. I don't think any muscles have been hit."

"Arthur, we need to go now if we want to reach the village before night," Tristan said.

Dagonet wound a bandage tightly around Isabelle's arm. "Ride with one arm," he told her. "Don't use it."

"Will you manage?" Arthur asked concerned.

"I'll be fine," Isabelle said determinedly. She walked over to Gawain, who was waiting with her horse.

He shook his head. "Madwoman," he muttered darkly.

Isabelle ignored him and mounted her horse, refusing to ask for help. She cringed in pain when she strained her injured arm but made no sound.

Tristan rolled his eyes when he noticed she flinched. The girl's stubbornness could rival Galahad's.

"Well, I don't know about you," Lancelot called cheerfully, "but that was one hell of a dive. I've only seen Galahad do it once, and that was because his horse tripped."

Bors burst out laughing. "Well fought," he called to Isabelle.

"Thanks, Bors," Isabelle answered, looking pointedly at Tristan and then at Gawain.

They turned around and spurred their horses.

* * *

At night they reached the next village. Isabelle felt a little light-headed from the blood loss all day, but refused to complain. 

She received a stern look from Dagonet when he cleaned and stitched the wound. "I did not nurse you back to health from an almost fatal fever to lose you at the hands of a Woad," he warned her.

"Sorry, Dag," Isabelle mumbled. Arthur had given her the same warning when he had checked on her during the day. She admitted it was foolish of her to think she could outfight the native warriors, who had killed numerous Sarmatian knights, all of them much better skilled in the art of warfare than she was.

She could fight, and she could fight well, but a battlefield was a world away from a victim's house. There were no tricks, no hiding places, no acting skills she could use to her advantage. Isabelle still didn't agree with being assigned the helpless-woman-role, but she could see it was a tad unwise to throw herself in the fight like that.

She gritted her teeth. That probably meant she would have to apologize to Tristan, the man who gave her an instant stomach ache whenever she thought of him. She recalled the burning and squirming sensations under her skin.

"Are you ill?" Dagonet asked.

"What?" Isabelle blinked. "No, I'm fine."

"You look flustered. Are you feverish?" he persisted. He laid a hand on her forehead. "You're quite warm," he frowned.

_Great_, she thought, _add fever to the stomach ache. What's wrong with me? _

"I'm fine, Dag," she repeated.

"Very well. Go to bed and rest," the large knight ordered her.

* * *

Tristan had found a place to sleep on the small hayloft of the only stable in the village. Galahad and Bors were snoring a few feet away from him. 

He leaned his head against the wooden rafter, recalling the events of the day. He had noticed the ambush waiting for him. He had also seen that there were too many Woads to take on alone, so knowing they had seen him already, he had lured them back to Arthur.

And to Isabelle. He couldn't deny the tinge of admiration he felt at her lack of hesitation to join the fight. It was almost overshadowed by his annoyance that by doing so she showed that she apparently still had a death wish.

Tristan's actions were not different from normal. He'd stepped in to prevent a knight from being killed many times. Though the fight was most important to him he would always watch his brothers' back. But today something was different. Today he had stepped in because he feared Isabelle might be hurt. A flash of her bloodied arm appeared before his eyes.

Tristan ran a hand over his tired face. Why would he care? He'd made her bleed much more than that himself. Made her hurt much worse. He shouldn't care.

He repeated his earlier thought to himself. _Fear that she might be hurt._ Fear was something he had lost a long time ago. What was the point in dreading something that would come anyway? Sooner or later. Death. His own death, his brothers' death. He had become the best warrior he could be. He was the best at what he did. Killing.

He had never been an open man, never had the need to flirt like Lancelot, never had the sense of duty Arthur had. He didn't need a bond like Bors and Dagonet had since they left their village together, or to grow a bond like Galahad and Gawain had done.

He'd been on his own most of the time anyway, scouting the lands. It fitted him. He was quiet and detached. Disturbing, according to some. Unapproachable and fearsome to most. And always careful not to get attached.

And then he had dragged an assassin from Arthur's quarters. Anwen. Isabelle. He had made her talk, but sometimes he wished he had never heard it, never brought her to his room, and into his life.

He had gained her trust and she had worked her way around his defences. He had worked his way around _her_ defences. Now he would have to deal with the consequences. Tristan was no fool; he'd been with women often enough to recognize desire. Hers and his own.

He took what he wanted from a woman: release. He bought it with coin. He had no patience to woo a wench like Gawain or Lancelot would. He'd seen fake desire in a woman under him as well as real desire, although that occurred less often. The wenches preferred the silky words of Lancelot.

He'd experienced desire himself. A new wench, a merchant's daughter coming of age, a laundry girl. He had always made sure that there were no expectations once he had quenched his thirst. A cold-hearted man, the women in the fort said, some with disgust, some with fascination. He cared not. He took what he wanted.

And right now, what he wanted was Isabelle. How it had happened, Tristan didn't know, but there was no denying it. He shifted in his makeshift bed when his breeches became uncomfortably tight.

He knew she wanted him. He'd seen hunger in her eyes. What he didn't know was whether she was aware of it.

It didn't matter. Isabelle was not a wench for his taking. She didn't need someone like him, someone who was dark, unpredictable, cruel, distant. He was the last thing she needed.

Tristan had seen how Gawain looked at her. With caring, not with lust like he did. Gawain, who was open and who could be gentle, who smiled and laughed and could make her laugh.

Tristan knew all he had to do was keep his distance from her and he would lose interest. She would as well. He closed his eyes, willing the images of slender white thighs wrapping around his hips and burning green eyes closing in pleasure to disappear.


	17. A Strange Condition

**A Strange Condition**

Despite his decision to stay away from her, Tristan found himself much more in Isabelle's company than he liked.

Once the cut in her arm had healed she asked for his help practising her bow, and while he was careful not to get close to her again, his eyes wandered over her body and face, hidden behind a curtain of black hair. Having her constantly in his presence for the remainder of the patrol put a strain on his self-control and he scouted the lands more often than was necessary.

Isabelle was confused. She knew Tristan was as closed as an oyster, but he seemed to take even more distance from her than usual. Sure, he helped her with her archery, but it was as if he had placed a wall between them. The tiny smiles and smirks she had seen on his face had completely vanished. He just looked at her with a completely blank face. She didn't know what she had done wrong.

"He can be a moody bastard. Everyone knows that," Galahad had shrugged when she'd asked him if something was wrong.

Isabelle chewed on her lip. She missed it. His dry comments and the way she felt around him, the awe she had felt when she had seen him fight, and…

She blushed. She missed how he felt against her body. Her first – well, second – archery lesson had been firmly imprinted in her memory, as well as his hands touching her skin, her back pressing against his chest, his hips aligned with hers.

More blood rushed to her cheeks and she shifted in the saddle. The past week she had woken in the middle of the night, sweating and panting, her nipples prodding against her shirt and heat pooling in her stomach. She didn't remember much from the dreams, except the rough feeling of callused hands and black hair sliding over her body.

In an hour or so they would be able to see the fort and Isabelle intended to go to Vanora to ask her about her condition as she had called it. She didn't want to tell Dagonet about it.

* * *

After a hot bath Isabelle was put into a dress by Celia. After she had discarded the maid's suggestion to rest, she walked to the Tavern, determined to speak to Vanora. 

Vanora told her to wait for her until her shift ended, which was only a half hour away, so she ordered a drink and something to eat.

She had just finished her meal when Vanora exited the kitchen and strolled towards her. "It's nice to have an evening off," she smiled at the younger woman.

Isabelle stood. "Can we go for a walk?"

"I'm a bit tired. Let's go sit in the courtyard," Vanora suggested.

"Of course."

They walked in silence to a bench and sat down. Vanora groaned and stretched her legs in front of her. "A little rest for my back," she smiled. "A child always puts such a strain on it."

"When will it be born?" Isabelle asked.

"Oh, in the fall is what the midwife told me. Now what did you want to ask me?"

"Something's wrong with me," Isabelle said. "I can't go to Dagonet, because I think it's a woman's thing."

"What is it?" Vanora asked curiously.

Isabelle quickly explained her symptoms. She was stunned to silence when the older woman burst into hearty laughter.

Vanora looked at the young woman. "Are you sure this has never happened to you before?"

"Something like it, but that can't be it."

"Oh, I think it is. Well, I can tell you nothing is wrong with you. It happens all the time," Vanora laughed. "It's attraction. Desire."

"Aye, I've thought about that, but the person who is involved…That's why it has to be something else," Isabelle said urgently. "It's wrong."

"Who is it?"

Isabelle hesitated for a moment. "Tristan."

"Ah," Vanora said thoughtfully. "I would have thought it was Gawain."

Isabelle nodded. "I _am_ attracted to Gawain. Very much so. He's – Do you know why I didn't kill him the night I went after Arthur?"

Vanora's face contorted as she thought about what had almost happened.

Isabelle looked at her hands. "I couldn't. I should have done it. But he made me feel," she said. _He made me feel like Titus had done. _

Vanora waited until Isabelle continued. She could see that more was bothering the young woman.

Isabelle said, "They're so different. I don't know what to do."

"I can't tell you what to do either," Vanora said kindly. "You have to find out yourself."

Isabelle leaned forward and rubbed her hands over her face. "What a mess. I can't believe I want the man that tortured me."

"Sometimes things are not as easy as we like them to be," the older woman said softly, taking Isabelle's hand in hers.

Isabelle made an agreeing sound.

"Let me tell you about Bors," Vanora said, patting Isabelle's hand. "He was seventeen when he arrived here. I had just started my job at the Tavern. After a few weeks he declared I was his woman and tried to drag me to his room. I hit him over the head with my pitcher. I couldn't stand the man."

Isabelle chuckled. "Then what happened?"

"Bors kept chasing me. Lots more pitchers were lost those months," Vanora grinned. "But, one night a Roman patron tried to rape me and Bors killed him. Arthur, who wasn't even their commander yet back then, managed to save his neck by proving the Roman had attacked me and turned Bors's punishment into a public whipping.

"After he had recovered some, he came to visit me to ask if I was well. I can still see him standing in the doorway, on unsteady legs, blood seeping through his shirt. I let him in my house. And the rest is well-known," Vanora finished, rubbing her hand over her slightly bulged belly.

"What I'm trying to say, Isabelle," Vanora continued, "is that nothing is simple when it comes to our lives. Unexpected things always lie in our path. When the time comes you'll know what to do, if you listen to yourself."

"Thank you, Vanora."

"You're welcome," Vanora smiled. "If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me."

"ISABELLE!" a booming voice barked.

The two women looked up. Kay crossed the courtyard with large strides, frowning angrily.

"Hello Kay, good to see you again," Isabelle smiled. "Something wrong?"

The bulky blacksmith huffed. "Are you simple?"

"Pardon me?" Isabelle blinked.

"You've been attacked only two weeks ago, and here you sit all alone with no one to protect you!"

"And what am I?" Vanora cried indignantly. "A cow?"

Kay wiped his black hair from his face with an irritated gesture. "You know what I mean. Without any of the knights."

"I'm armed!" Isabelle protested.

"Aye, and I bet those three toothpicks you hide under that skimpy dress will really be of use when someone attacks you with a sword," Kay scoffed.

"We can't all wield humongous swords and pretend to be a twelve-feet giant," Isabelle retorted.

"Watch your mouth, imp," Kay threatened.

Isabelle batted her eyelashes at him. "Thank you for your concern, Sir Kay. Please sit with us poor helpless damsels to keep us safe," she purred.

Kay snorted loudly, but sat down next to Isabelle on the bench.

Vanora got up. "I should be going now that you're in capable hands, Isabelle," she winked. "Time to see if my darlings haven't set the house on fire or killed each other. Kay, Bors will expect to see you at supper tonight."

"Of course, Vanora."

"Bye."

"You smell," Isabelle grinned, sniffing the large man.

"I've been working all day in the smithy. Not all of us can spend the day dallying around, picking daisies and gossiping with other women," Kay replied. "In fact, I don't have time to watch you here, so come along, you can keep me company in the smithy. I reckon your protectors will be champing at the bit with impatience to have their armour fixed."

"My protectors?"

"Yes, those gallant and extraordinary men, as Arthur likes to put it. A bunch of stubborn pigs is more likely, if you ask me."

"Oh, really? You're one of them, in case you've forgotten," Isabelle grinned.

"I have not. I'm a stubborn pig myself," Kay grinned back.

"A smelling one too."

"Sweat from labour doesn't smell, lass. And let's see if you still smell like roses after an hour sweating out of your skin in the smithy."

Continuing the playful banter they walked to Kay's smithy, and indeed there was one of her 'protectors' waiting impatiently for the blacksmith.

"Where've you been?" Galahad demanded.

"What's the rush? Got a girl you need to woo?" Kay asked slyly. "I was just keeping an eye on our little Isabelle here, who was skipping about the courtyard with no one to watch her."

"Not again," Isabelle sighed, rolling her eyes. "I'm armed."

"Really?" Galahad said thoughtfully while he looked her up and down. "Then I'd sure like to know where you're keeping those weapons."

Before he could blink a dagger flew past his head and hit the doorpost. Galahad looked at the quivering knife and swallowed. "Point taken," he said.

"Thank you."

Galahad wrenched the dagger from the wood and handed it back to its owner. With a smug grin Isabelle tucked her weapon back in her pocket.

"Come inside," Kay grumbled. "What do you have that needs mending, Galahad?"

"Nothing much. Just a buckle on my saddle and could you check my mare's horseshoes?"

"Sure."

"Great. I'm off then."

"Off to Rhian?"

Galahad flushed at Kay's raised eyebrow. The retired knight grinned lewdly. "We won't be seeing you in the Tavern for a while then?"

Galahad grinned back. "Let's hope so." With a wave of his hand he walked outside.

Kay wiped his hair from his face, making sure all of it was tucked into his ponytail. "Here, make yourself useful and keep the fire going." He waved at the pair of bellows near the fire.

Isabelle smiled to herself. Of all the people at the fort who knew about her past, Kay paid the least attention to it. He had seen Arthur place his trust in her, so he had shrugged and done the same. No pitying, no careful treading around her – although Kay probably didn't even know the meaning of the word 'careful'.

She listened to his instructions and tried to keep the fire as hot as he wanted it. Soon she felt sweat trickle down her face. She wiped the moist off her skin with a soot-covered hand.

"How did the patrol go? Any trouble?" Kay asked, as he heated, reheated, and worked on a sword in making on his anvil.

"Not much. We were attacked by Woads once and Arthur received word that some villages near the coast have been attacked by small groups of Saxons."

"Aye, it's a little too early in the season for major problems. Usually around the summer solstice is when things get rough."

"Summer solstice? When's that?"

"About a fortnight away. The Christians call it St John's day, because the priests don't approve of it. But who listens to priests anyway?"

"Oh… Well, you may congratulate me then. I've turned seventeen."

"That's good for you. I'll buy you a drink tonight. Now keep that fire burning."

"So, do you celebrate the summer solstice as well?" Isabelle asked.

"It's one of the few days we knights don't have to fight. Even those damned Woads celebrate it. Winter solstice, Beltane, Samhain… Those are about the only peaceful days."

"What do you do on such days?" Isabelle asked curiously. Maurus had called himself a Christian and was revolted by anything pagan. _If he is a proper Christian, I am the queen of France_, she sneered to herself.

"Hold games, play music, jump over fires, pick flowers to protect myself from faeries, seduce women on Beltane…" Kay summed up.

"You're very casual about it. You don't believe in it?"

"Imp, I've lost faith in the gods a long time ago, whether that be the Sarmatian gods, the Briton gods or Arthur's god. I've seen too much to believe in a greater good. Right now, I'm just living my life for myself."

"That's bitter," Isabelle said softly.

"Aye, it is," Kay admitted, putting the sword back in the fire. He glanced at her. "I reckon you know a thing about that too."

She nodded.

Kay waved a large hand at the door. "Just ask any of the knights; they'll tell you the same. Religious they may be for the people here, but for us those four days are just days without having to shed blood."

"Then they are good days, religious or not."

Kay grunted. He examined his work and nodded, before walking over to a bucket of water and quenching the sword. "Move over. I have to temper the sword."

He took her place. Isabelle watched him heat the fire to a specific temperature. "You have to watch the colour of the fire, see?" he explained.

"Not really," Isabelle grinned. "I'll take your word for it."

Kay busied himself with the fire until he was satisfied. He grabbed the sword and heated it one last time. "And then you have to watch the colour of the blade."

"How can you tell?" Isabelle asked the blacksmith.

"You learn. I learned from my father."

"Why haven't you gone back to Sarmatia?" she suddenly asked. "Galahad talks about it all the time."

"I knew my life was here. Chances of returning were naught, so I decided to make of it what I could here." Kay stared at the sword in the fire. "Galahad has always kept his memories of his childhood close. He was only nine when they took him. When he arrived here, the knights in service nearly mutinied, outraged that the Romans had taken such a young boy. But he managed; his older brother protected him."

"Galahad has a brother?" Isabelle asked surprised.

"Not anymore. Percival died after four years in service. Almost lost the pup too. He was broken. It was Gawain who picked up the pieces. I have rarely seen one without the other since then."

They were silent for a while, until Kay had finished the sword and put it aside. "Come, sit with me."

Isabelle sat herself at the table, while Kay poured a drink for them. "Is that why he longs for home? Because of his brother?"

Kay nodded. "It's a hard life here. We've all had to find a way to survive. Galahad's way is remembering his home."

"Mine is forgetting about home," Isabelle confessed.

"And mine is making a new home here," Kay added. He took a swig from his mug. "But that was after Bedivere died. Never had a better friend than him. Never will. You may have noticed we all have someone who's a bit closer than the rest, who'll always watch your back."

"I have. Galahad and Gawain, Bors and Dagonet…"

"Arthur and Lancelot," Kay nodded. "It was the same between Bedivere and me."

"What about Tristan?"

Kay shook his head. "That's a loner. Always has been. He's the best at what he does: killing Woads. But he does it alone. That's his way of surviving, I think. Never getting attached to someone else. Don't get me wrong; there are very few men I'd rather have beside me in a battle, but he always keeps his distance."

"He confuses me," Isabelle blurted out before she could stop herself.

"No worries," Kay grinned. "He confuses all."

* * *

A/N: Probably the last chapter for a while, since my mid-terms are comin up. I hope you've enjoyed it. Let me know! 


	18. Betrayed

**A/N: Hi, everybody! My mid-terms are over (yay!), so I've finally been able to do some writing. Thanks for all your reviews, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter.**

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* * *

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**Betrayed**

"Kay, we can't find Isabelle anywhere!" Gawain yelled, bursting through the blacksmith's door.

Isabelle waved at him from her place at the table.

"Gods!" Gawain shouted angrily. "You'll be the death of me some day, woman. First you throw yourself into a fight with Woads and then you disappear into thin air!"

"What are you talking about? I'm with Kay, there's nothing to worry about. Besides, Galahad knows I'm here."

Gawain's anger deflated a bit. "I haven't seen Galahad."

"That's because he's off chasing Rhian again," Kay said.

The blonde knight rolled his eyes. "Can't believe she's not sick of him yet."

"Drink?" Kay asked, holding up his mug.

"No, I have to tell the others we have found our missing lady." He looked her up and down with twinkling blue eyes. "What have you been doing, by the way? Rolling around in the dirt?"

"No, I've been helping Kay," Isabelle replied, trying to brush some soot off her ruined dress. Celia was going to kill her.

"I see. Well, I'm going. Don't go anywhere without Kay or one of the others, you hear me?" he warned her.

"Fine."

Gawain stepped outside, shaking his head. He'd been worried sick. Another one of those damned assassins could be lurking around the corner. At least she'd been safe from them while she was away on patrol. It was not as if he didn't trust her skills with a weapon; after all, she had managed to injure Arthur. It was just that he knew all too well that it would take only one moment of carelessness to give an assassin the perfect opportunity to kill her, no matter how well they guarded her.

His stomach had been in knots when she had not answered his knock on her door. And when none of the others had seen her…

Gawain whistled on his fingers at Dagonet, who walked on the other side of the street. "Found her. She's with Kay," he called out.

Dagonet looked relieved. Gawain knew the knight had a soft spot for the young woman. "Let's tell the others."

Together they went in search of their fellow knights.

"That girl's antics have an unnerving effect on me," Gawain grumbled. "Too much trouble for her own good."

Dagonet smiled knowingly and clapped his friend on the back. "Worried?" he asked.

"Of course!" Gawain said loudly. "She's – she – she's just – I don't know." He settled for, "She's something, isn't she?" A boyish grin appeared on his face.

Dagonet gave his friend a sharp look. "She's not nothing," he said vaguely.

"I'd… Ah, forget it. It was never more than that one night."

"I never took you for the type of man to give up before he has even tried," Dagonet commented in a casual tone.

Gawain's head shot up and he narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do I need to explain to you how to woo a woman, my friend?" Dagonet asked dryly.

Gawain huffed. "I could teach _you_ a few things."

"Then cease your whining and do something about it."

* * *

Tristan had a strong urge to put his hands around Isabelle's neck and strangle her. While he was searching the fort for her with a growing feeling of dread in his chest, she had been drinking ale with Kay. 

Now she sat completely carefree and oblivious to his dark glares on the other side of the table with a mug of wine in her hand, talking to the blacksmith. Tristan waved at a barmaid to bring him more wine, while he watched her from under his fringe.

Apparently she had decided she had turned seventeen and they had all bought her a drink to celebrate. Kay had provoked her into trying to drink him under the table. Tristan grinned nastily. Even Bors couldn't drink the long-haired man under the table. Isabelle would be in misery tomorrow. Good.

Isabelle stared in defeat at her mug. Heaving a deep sigh, she placed her chin in her hand and watched Galahad and Gawain bicker over who had won their knife-throwing contest.

"Giving up?" Kay asked with a smug grin.

"No, I'm just taking a break," she answered stubbornly.

"Trust me, you can't win this," Lancelot told her, pulling a barmaid into his lap. "I've missed you, Mared," he said huskily.

Mared finished filling Tristan's mug and leaned into Lancelot, kissing him full on the mouth. "Missed you too."

Another barmaid smacked Lancelot on the back of his head. He grinned widely and said, "And I've missed you as well, Brenna."

"I bet you missed every single barmaid while you were away," Isabelle snorted.

"I knew there had to be some wit under that pretty face," Lancelot winked at her.

Isabelle stuck out her tongue and grabbed Kay's mug. "Let me help you with that."

Kay looked suspiciously at her. "Are you going to be able to walk to your room later?"

"Of course. I'm a lady; I don't get drunk."

Tristan gave an amused grunt. The slight slur to her voice indicated otherwise.

"I'm surprised someone of such high standing is willing to spend time amongst the common," Mared said in an unpleasant voice, leaning against Lancelot's chest with a haughty look in her eyes.

Tristan's eyes shot to the barmaid. He recognized an insult, even though her words were polite. Kay's jaw tensed.

Isabelle raised an eyebrow and began to smile languidly. "Oh, you'd be surprised at the things I'm willing to do," she replied in a sultry voice. She looked through her eyelashes at Lancelot and ran her fingers over her lips. "Isn't that right, Lancelot?"

Lancelot's eyebrows raised so high they almost disappeared under his mop of unruly curls and he stared in shock at her. Mared couldn't see that, however, and with a huff she jumped to her feet, glared at the dark-haired knight, and stormed away.

Kay and Bors roared with laughter and even Tristan didn't hide his mirth in his mug, but smirked openly at his brother.

"You chased my wench away!" Lancelot sputtered indignantly.

"She wouldn't be much fun anyway with that head of hers up her arse," Isabelle shrugged.

"Give me a kiss and maybe I'll forgive you," he leered.

Isabelle stuck her nose high in the air. "Ladies don't show their affection in public."

"This is an invitation to your room, I presume?"

"NO!"

"I think I'll go find myself another room to sleep in then. If you'll excuse me…"

Isabelle waved him goodbye.

"Bothersome girl," Kay grunted.

"Excuse me?" Isabelle huffed in offence, her hand stilling in the air.

"Not you, imp. That Mared. Thinks she rules the fort. I don't want her within ten feet of my bed, but she has a bosom, which is what makes Lancelot a happy man," he shrugged.

"Who don't you want in your bed, Kay?" Galahad asked, seating himself next to Isabelle.

"Mared."

Galahad rolled his eyes. "Aye. She can be bloody annoying."

"How was Rhian?" Isabelle asked cheekily.

Galahad gave her a wide smile. "I think she missed me."

"How could you tell?"

"I guessed from the way she dragged me to an empty alley and whispered she was going to throw me on my back and have her way with me," Galahad answered mischievously.

"You're a bad influence on that poor baker's daughter," Kay said sternly.

"That's rich, coming from you," Galahad scoffed. "You seduced your commander's mistress."

Kay's angular face split into a dreamy grin.

"You seduced Arthur's mistress?" Isabelle gasped. She frowned suddenly. "Arthur has a mistress?"

"No, not Arthur's. Julius Septimus's mistress," Galahad explained. "He was our commander the first four years of our service."

"I served under him for nine years," Kay said. "Served my first year under Arthur's father. Great man that was. Much better than that pompous pig Julius."

"But he did have an eye for women," Bors said.

Kay's grin widened. "Aye, that he did."

"He would have hanged you from the Wall had he ever found out," Tristan said quietly. His eyes locked with Isabelle's for a moment and he quickly took a mouthful from his wine.

"Then it's a good thing you're not the only one who knows how to sneak around," Kay retorted, raising his mug at the scout.

"What was her name?" Isabelle asked curiously. This was the woman whose possessions were in her room.

"Andrivete," Kay answered. "She was from Thracia."

"What happened to her?"

"She went back to Rome with Julius after he had was discharged," the blacksmith sighed wistfully.

"Kay was heartbroken," Galahad sniggered.

"Aye, it took him four whole months to bed another woman," Bors laughed.

Isabelle rolled her eyes and listened to the continued banter between the knights. Gawain and Dagonet joined them. Lancelot was nowhere to be seen in the Tavern. Isabelle figured he had managed to soothe Mared.

Tristan whistled suddenly, beckoning someone closer. Gilly stepped from the shadows and shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

"What ye doing 'ere, lad?" Bors asked. "I told ye to stay away from the Tavern at night. Where's your ma?"

"Something tells me Vanora doesn't know he's here," Kay rumbled. Gilly flushed.

Bors rose from his seat and told his brothers he was bringing his son back before Vanora would have his head, ignoring the shouts from the knights that he was a lovesick puppy on a leash.

"I gave him ten children and the eleventh is on the way. He _should_ be lovesick!" Vanora said, marching towards the table. She immediately engaged in a rant against Bors, who tried to soothe her. A pregnant Vanora was a dangerous Vanora.

Isabelle chuckled at Gawain's comment that Galahad had a lovesick look in his girly eyes too, to which Galahad retorted that he had bedded many a maiden thanks to his eyes.

"Aye, Galahad, they are very pretty," Isabelle agreed without thinking. The entire table went silent and stared at her.

"You think I have pretty eyes?" Galahad asked, smirking smugly at Gawain. The blonde glared venomously at his friend.

"Very much so," Isabelle nodded. She clasped a hand in front of her mouth when she hiccoughed.

The knights howled with laughter.

"She's as pissed as Galahad was the first time we got him drunk!" Kay chuckled. "Remember that, pup? You declared your undying love and devotion to Vanora."

Galahad blushed a bright shade of red. "I don't remember that at all."

"Unfortunately for you, we do," Gawain grinned. "And so does Vanora," he added, wrapping his arm around the woman, who had just stopped her tirade.

"Getting a lad of twelve years too drunk to walk," she huffed. "Pigs." She smacked Gawain over the head and walked away with Gilly.

Isabelle rubbed her eyes. "I think it's time I go to my room, before _I_ start declaring my undying devotion to you." She got to her feet and grabbed her head. "Bad idea," she groaned, sending the knights into another fit of laughter.

She stumbled over the bench, cursing under her breath.

"I thought ladies didn't get drunk," Kay teased.

"I'm not drunk. I'm slightly intoxicated," Isabelle replied haughtily.

"I'll take you to your room, in case you trip and hit your slightly intoxicated head," Gawain grinned.

"Thank you, sir."

Together they walked out of the Tavern.

Tristan tensed when Gawain put his arm around her shoulders and pulled Isabelle close to him. Isabelle slid her arm around his waist and smiled up at him. Tristan noticed Gawain's other hand was on the hilt of his knife. _At least he's paying attention_, the scout thought and figured this should make the tension in his body disappear.

It didn't.

Feeling his mood darken by the second, Tristan downed his wine and glared ominously at a Roman who looked at him the wrong way. The soldier quickly looked away. Curling his lip in a contemptuous manner at the man, he decided it was time to leave before his temper would get the better of him.

Kay curiously turned his head to the scout when he got abruptly to his feet. "Off brooding, my friend?"

"Yes," Tristan snapped, daring the blacksmith to say anything.

Kay shrugged, more than familiar with Tristan's moods. "Enjoy yourself."

While he stalked to the fortress wall, Tristan scolded himself. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? To stay away from her, to make her lose interest. And here he was, acting like a petulant child, because Gawain brought her to her room.

He climbed the stairs and looked out over the moonlit landscape, leaning against the battlements. He was rapidly getting tangled into something he had avoided for fourteen years. Getting involved with anything that could get killed. He did not like it one bit.

* * *

The knights knew better than to come near Tristan when he was like this. Ever since the patrol he had been in a vicious mood. A week after they had returned, he still walked around with a tense jaw and a dark glint in his eyes. 

Tristan knew his brothers had no idea what was wrong. He knew exactly what was wrong himself. Isabelle seemed to be everywhere. She was with Kay when he came to get some rings on his armour fixed. She was in the stables with one of Bors's bastards when he was getting ready to scout, spoiling Gawain's mare and foal with apples. She would come and shoot her bow – Galahad had given her the one she had practised with – while he and the other knights were training. She was in the Tavern, he ran into her near their rooms, she sat next to him in the fortress hall.

His reaction to her presence had not changed and it was driving him mad. He found himself staring at her mouth, her eyes, the curves accented by her dresses or the skin of her neck and shoulders exposed by the unlaced neckline of her shirt when she practised that damned bow. Her scent stirred his arousal almost painfully whenever she walked past him.

He had escaped her by scouting the surroundings of the fort for almost a week, but now, the moment he returned, she was still there, sending him a bright smile that made him want to pin her against the wall and ravish her mouth. Abruptly he stood still.

Isabelle's smile faltered at the sight of his level stare. He turned around and walked away in the opposite direction. She stood frozen for a moment, mystified by his behaviour. She had been under the impression they had gotten along reasonably well. At least, when he didn't drive her up the wall with either his silence or remarks.

"Sooner or later this mood of him will clear," Gawain, who was standing beside her, said.

"What's the matter with him?"

"Who knows?" Gawain shrugged. "He never lets anyone in."

* * *

The days leading up to St John's day – summer solstice for those who had not converted – were filled with a buzzing excitement. Isabelle became increasingly curious about this festive day, as she had never celebrated it before. There were no festivities for slaves. 

Gawain had teased her mercilessly by implying he knew about all sorts of secret activities, of which she believed nothing, until Galahad, Lancelot, and even Dagonet had joined in.

Kay had overheard them and told Isabelle the only secret activities the knights participated in was polishing their swords at night. Alone. The hand gesture Kay made left no doubt as to which sword he was referring. The teasing stopped.

On St John's day itself it had been crowded in the streets since the early morning. Even after having watched the bonfires on Midsummer night for hours Isabelle had got up at sunrise and dragged Gawain from his bed to escort her. Having had only a few hours sleep after a heavy night, he was not amused, to say the least.

"I'm putting you in someone else's hands as soon as I can and then I'm going back to bed," he grumbled sleepily as he put his hands into his washbasin and splashed his face. His affections for the girl had lessened severely since she had woken him up by tickling his nose with his own hair.

"You're not an early bird, are you?" Isabelle remarked, smirking at Gawain's back.

"Do I have feathers?" Gawain muttered.

Isabelle bounced on his bed. "I have a much more comfortable bed than you have," she judged.

"It's too early for me to respond to indecent proposals, Isabelle," Gawain groaned.

"It was merely an observation."

Lancelot peeked through the open door. "Trying a new bed, I hear?"

"Aye," Isabelle answered immediately, "but next time I'm taking him to my own bed. It's better than his. Want to join us?"

Lancelot stared thoughtfully at her. "You are spending far too much time with Kay. He's rubbing off on you."

"I know. He's teaching me Sarmatian," Isabelle smiled innocently and proceeded to utter a string of descriptive insults that almost made the two knights blush. "I'm not exactly sure what it means, but Kay said it would be effective."

They looked at each other. "Aye, too often around Kay that one," Gawain sighed. Lancelot chuckled.

After he had some breakfast – baked at night so it possessed special powers - Gawain's mood lightened considerably and he walked around the fort with Isabelle, who was thoroughly enjoying the bright atmosphere, the music, and the games. They stopped to watch Kay wrestle with a Roman soldier and cheered when he won, while Lancelot collected his bet money. They talked to Vanora for a while, who invited Isabelle to come along for the first harvest of herbs – a tradition.

As they walked along, Isabelle ignored the covert glowering looks she received from many a maiden for occupying Gawain's time. They came across Bors and his bastards where she received a glowering look from Gawain himself when she suggested to Seven that she should put flowers in his hair instead of hers.

Gawain left her there to find them something to eat. When he returned Isabelle was staring at someone, a frown on her face.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I think I recognize someone," she said slowly. She stared at the black-haired man wearing a rust-coloured tunic in the crowd for a moment and then her face broke into a smile. "I can't believe it. It's Kallias."

"Kallias? As in the one from Maurus's estate?" Gawain asked warily, his hand moving to his axe. He remembered Isabelle mentioning him a few times. She had said he was the only one she trusted and considered a friend.

"Aye. Don't worry; he's a friend," Isabelle said. "KALLIAS!"

Gawain swore violently when Isabelle scrambled to her feet and waved. The black-haired man strode purposefully towards her. Isabelle waved again and began walking over to him, a grin on her face.

"KAY! TRISTAN!" Gawain roared with a stressed edge to his voice while he snatched at Isabelle's dress.

The two men, who had been talking to each other some fifty feet away, snapped their heads to the knight at the sound of his voice. Tristan saw what was happening instantly, but he was too far away.

Isabelle shrieked in protest when Gawain seized her around the waist and pulled her to him.

Tristan and Kay bolted towards the assassin, the flash of a knife evident in his hand. Tristan cursed when he saw Isabelle struggling to get away from Gawain. Did she not see his knife?

Suddenly Lancelot pushed his way through the mass of people, his swords already unsheathed. "Assassin!" he bellowed.

The man whipped towards him while the people around them rushed away from them, screams and shouts coming from them.

"NO!" Isabelle cried. "Lancelot! He's a friend! Kallias!"

Lancelot had already struck at the man before he could draw his weapons. The assassin moved out of the sword's way and grabbed his own weapons. Kay and Tristan stopped in their tracks. Intervening know would only mean getting in Lancelot's way and endangering him.

Isabelle struggled in Gawain's grasp. He tightened his arms around her body, lifting her all but from the ground as she thrashed around, screaming at the men to stop.

Tristan saw the hurt on her face and he too recognized the name she shouted at the top of her lungs. She had thought this Kallias a trusted friend.

Gawain grunted in pain when Isabelle's elbow hit him in the ribs. His grip on her loosened when her heel kicked back and smashed into his shin. Lashing out with her arm once more she slipped away from his grasp and ran towards the fighting men. "No! Isabelle!" he shouted.

Tristan saw it happen. The assassin ducked under a swing from Lancelot's swords and fisted his hand in the sand. Tristan darted forward, but it was too late. A handful of sand was thrown into Lancelot's face and he cried out, stumbling away from the assassin.

Tristan shouted a warning at Isabelle and leaped towards her, but something flashed through his field of vision. Somewhere in the distance he heard Kay and Gawain's shocked roar as Isabelle staggered backwards, staring in horror at the knife embedded in her body.


	19. Betrayed Again

**A/N: **I love cliffhangers :D

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* * *

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**Betrayed again**

Isabelle tripped over her dress and landed on her backside, still staring in disbelief at the knife and the growing red stain on her dress. Her vision was going dark around the edges. The ground seemed to dance under her, making her nauseous. She vaguely registered that it was a bad sign she didn't feel any pain.

A strong arm slipped around her back to hold her up and she searched for the face that belonged to the arm. It seemed very far away.

Someone was screaming and shouting. She frowned. Lots of people were screaming and shouting. With unfocussed eyes she looked at the one holding her. He was talking to her. She could see his lips moving between the black beard.

Isabelle stared in Tristan's eyes. "That's funny," she giggled. "I thought they were dark. But they're gold." Everything went black.

"Isabelle!" Tristan said urgently. "Stay awake. Open your eyes."

Running footsteps came to a slipping halt next to him and Gawain dropped to his knees. "Gods," he breathed. "Is she…"

Tristan quickly searched for a pulse. "No, she's alive. Where's Dagonet?"

Kay and Lancelot ran towards them as well, and a screaming Celia was being restrained by Galahad.

Dagonet began shouting instructions before he had even arrived. Tristan got to his feet to make room for him. His sharp eyes scanned the crowd. He saw a glimpse of black hair and rust-coloured cloth from the corner of his eye.

His face contorted into a cruel snarl and with a wild light in his eyes he set after the assassin. With sadistic satisfaction he knew the man was going to regret lingering. His curved sword left its scabbard. The residents of the fort scurried out of the scout's way as he passed them, terrified by his face.

* * *

Pain was the first thing she remembered. Even before she woke up. It hurt to move; it hurt to breathe; it hurt to still be alive. 

"I think she's waking up," someone said. More sounds.

"Call for Dagonet."

She knew their voices. A soft light peeked through her lashes when she opened her eyes. Isabelle squeaked. Bors and Galahad's faces were hovering over her, merely inches away.

"How are you feeling?" Galahad asked.

Isabelle opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue seemed to be glued to her palate. A pathetic moan was all that left her mouth.

The door opened and Dagonet's tall frame filled the doorway. He smiled. "Welcome back."

"Water," Isabelle managed to extract from her throat.

"Just a little," Galahad said as he held a cup to Isabelle's lips. She drank greedily from it.

"How long?" she asked hoarsely when Galahad took the cup away from her.

"Four days," Dagonet answered, as he sat down to examine her. He placed a hand on her forehead. "I kept you asleep to heal. You lost a lot of blood. But fortunately you did not develop a fever. I just can't keep you in good health, can I?"

"Kallias? What happened to him?" Isabelle asked hesitantly.

"Tristan went after him."

Isabelle nodded. Then she knew enough. Kallias could not have escaped. She closed her eyes in pain.

"Go back to sleep," Dagonet told her. Isabelle's eyelids were already drooping. He looked at his fellow knights.

"It's my turn to guard her," Galahad answered. "I had just come in when she stirred." Arthur had ordered there was to be a knight with her at all times.

Dagonet nodded and stood, looking at Isabelle. She had fallen asleep again. "I'll tell Arthur. Bors, you coming?"

The gruff knight followed his friend out of the room. Galahad settled himself in the chair where Bors had been sitting in, near the bed.

The next few days Isabelle recovered steadily. When Arthur visited her, she smiled ruefully. "I suppose it's true then."

"What do you mean?"

"What goes around, comes around," she clarified, pointing at her wound. Arthur rubbed over the scar she had given him. It was located in roughly the same place as her own wound.

"Eye for an eye in a way," he smiled.

"I thought it was 'turn the other cheek'," Lancelot frowned.

"So you do listen to me?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lancelot huffed. "Don't count on it."

"Did I hear children's voices earlier?" Isabelle interjected.

"Yes. Bors's girls wanted to visit you, but you were asleep," Lancelot nodded. "Seven was quite persuasive. She told me she wouldn't let an old man like me get in her way."

Isabelle chuckled. "She takes after her mother."

"Thank the gods for that," Lancelot grinned.

Tristan knocked and stuck his head inside. "Arthur? A word, please." He avoided looking at Isabelle.

Arthur nodded and got up, but Isabelle's voice stopped him. "Tristan?"

Tristan clenched his jaw. "Aye?"

"Did he… Kallias?" she began. "Do you know why?"

"Before he died he told me Maurus had promised him his freedom," Tristan said tersely. "I'm sorry," he added when he saw the look of betrayal on her face. He left. Arthur followed him.

Tears formed in Isabelle's eyes. He had done it for his freedom. Maurus had set her only friend up against her, using the perfect means. She bit her trembling lip.

"I'm sorry, Isabelle," Lancelot said.

"God, that hurts," she groaned. "He was the only friend I had. He stood up for me when my temper got me into trouble, he helped nurse the wounds on my back, he took care of me. I didn't think he would ever hurt me." Her shoulders shook with her sobs, making her hiss in pain at the same time.

"He's not your only friend. I'd be honoured if you considered me one," Lancelot said, grabbing her hand.

She gave him a quivering smile through her tears. "You always know exactly what to say, don't you?"

"It was a genuine offer."

"Thank you. I'd love to have you as a friend."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while until Isabelle began to yawn. "I – I don't know wha – wha – what's wrong with me."

"It's that brew Dagonet made you drink to keep you asleep. It takes days to wear off," Lancelot chuckled.

Isabelle slid under her blanket and closed her eyes. Her last conscious thought was that Tristan never seemed to guard her.

* * *

Two days later Isabelle was fit enough to leave her bed for a while and she begged Celia for a bath. The maid spent her days blubbering over Isabelle and harassing the knights into being extremely careful with her. 

After her bath Isabelle bargained with Dagonet about her treatment. They settled for another two days of rest and then she could get up. Her appetite had returned and she wolfed down the food Celia brought her, much to the amusement of Gawain and the disapproval of the maid, who watched her eat with pursed lips.

Galahad stayed with her during the evening. Isabelle found that she was not as uncomfortable around him as she used to be. Her conversation with Kay had made her understand him better. They talked quietly, until Isabelle's answers became slurry and eventually stopped coming at all.

As usual Tristan entered without making a sound. Galahad thought he looked exhausted, which was no wonder as the man had been without a good night's rest for over a week and still did his work during the day.

Tristan had volunteered to take the night watches. He had no idea what to say to Isabelle should she be awake and he hoped to avoid it like this.

"'Night," Galahad said softly.

Tristan grumbled something and sat in the chair Galahad had abandoned. The door closed softly. Tristan leaned his head against the back of the chair, stretching his tired legs in front of him. He loosened his tunic and poured himself some water to drink.

Putting the cup back down, he looked at Isabelle, who was sleeping calmly. She was lying on her back with her face turned to him, her dark hair spread out.

Tristan ran a hand over his face. He was dog tired. Keeping his sword near his hand, he listened for sounds that were out of place.

The soft crackle and warmth of the fire lulled him into a slumber. Tristan knew he should get up from his chair and walk around for a bit, but he was too tired. He fought the sleep he had denied himself for too long, but soon his eyelids grew too heavy and he closed them for a moment. Only for a moment.

* * *

Isabelle woke in the middle of the night. She'd had so much sleep she was completely awake. She looked to her left and her breath hitched. Tristan was sleeping in the chair next to her bed. 

Her hand shot out to wake him, but it stopped in mid-air. He looked peaceful. He had rested his head against the back of the chair. His exposed throat showed the cords of his muscles. There were dark shadows under his eyes that gave away his lack of rest.

A tiny smile appeared on Isabelle's lips. She had never seen the enigmatic man with his guard down. She pulled herself up to a sitting position and studied his face. The deep set eyes, the sharp nose, the high cheekbones tattooed with dark blue ink… Her hands itched to touch them. He was so close. Barely two feet away.

She stretched out her good arm and brushed over the tattoo, feeling the slightly raised skin with a finger. He didn't move.

Her eyes dropped to his mouth. The lines around his nose and mouth had been smoothened in his sleep. There were flecks of grey in his beard, near his lips. _Such an inviting mouth_, she thought, _belonging to such a distant man_.

She knew she shouldn't, but her hand had already stretched out again. Her finger traced the sensual line of his mouth, his skin soft under hers.

She sucked her breath in through her teeth when his eyes suddenly snapped open and his hand grabbed her wrist, his other hand reaching for his sword.

He leaned back in the chair when he saw it was her and released the hilt.

Isabelle's cheeks flamed furiously. She averted her eyes and tried to wrench her wrist from his grip. He refused to let go.

He looked intently at her with those eyes the colour of old gold or honey. The tip of his tongue ran over his bottom lip, slowly and deliberately, while his eyes measured her. Isabelle was embarrassed beyond belief and tried to look anywhere but in his eyes. "Let go, please," she mumbled almost inaudibly.

When he slowly pulled her closer by her wrist his eyes locked hers. The air was charged with something that made her heart race. Tristan leaned in, closer to her mouth. She held her breath when his lips touched hers.

He kissed her more fervently, needing to feel more of her. His mind screamed at him to stop, to get away from her, but when she moaned into his mouth, all reason was blown from him. Grabbing her waist, he moved over to the bed and deepened their kiss.

Isabelle pulled him down with her, hissing in pain when she wrapped her arms around him. He broke their kiss, sense coming back to him.

She was trapped under him, panting, lips swollen. Her eyes burned the way he had dreamt of.

Isabelle gasped when his eyes suddenly flared up. Tristan crashed his lips into hers, his tongue plunging into her mouth.

He fisted his hand in the chemise she was wearing and pulled it up over her hips. Isabelle sat up and let him take it off. Tristan buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent and tasting her skin. She was as soft as he had imagined it.

A remnant of rose oil was vague on her skin, but it was her own womanly scent that sent the blood pounding through his veins.

Isabelle let her hands slip under the layers of clothing and into his breeches. Tristan groaned against her skin when she touched him.

Hearing the usually silent scout groan his arousal sent shivers all over Isabelle's body. Her hands worked feverishly on the laces and buckles of his clothing, desperate to feel his skin against hers. She pushed him back on his knees and got rid of the tunic. She let her hands rub his chest and shoulders, threading her fingers through the dark hair on his chest and following the muscles down to his sharp hipbones. Her fingers lightly traced a few scars and she winced at the sight of the one left of his navel. The one where he had almost been gutted.

Tristan watched her face and half expected her to tell him that he was an idiot again. Instead she leaned forward on her knees and kissed the old scar, slowly dragging her lips upward, making his breath hitch, until she found his mouth. She teased him with her lips and teeth, until he growled and took over control. He wound his hands in her hair, tilting her head so he could nip at the soft flesh of her throat.

Tristan's hands slid to her back to press her against him. He stiffened when they felt the raised lines of scars on her back. Isabelle felt his reaction and pulled away. Seeing his tight face, she whispered, "Tristan," and placed his hands back on the scars.

He soon took over the kiss she had distracted him with and cupped her backside, grinding his hips into hers. A loud moan was his reward and he let go of her to discard his boots and breeches.

Isabelle pulled him on top of her the moment he had dropped his clothing. Tristan grinned and pushed a knee between her thighs, letting a hand slid down her body to pleasure her.

His grin turned feral when her hips bucked to meet his fingers every time. He watched her face with a hungry look as she begged him for more through ragged breaths. He bowed his head and claimed her mouth while he sank between her thighs, sliding himself in the warmth of her body.

* * *

Completely spent Tristan found himself still on top of Isabelle, who had fallen asleep with a hand lazily on his hip. He lifted his head. Blood had seeped through the bandage around her chest. She had probably pulled some stitches. 

Slowly he slid off her and stretched himself beside her. He traced the marks he had left on her. Her lips were still swollen and bruised, her skin had reddened where his beard had rasped against her skin. Tristan smiled warmly as he wiped her damp hair from her face.

Suddenly he shot up straight, his smile vanished. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, running his hands through his matted hair.

He turned his head to the sleeping woman in the bed and quickly turned back, searching for his clothes on the floor.

* * *

Half-awake, Isabelle turned around and found her bed empty except for herself. With a frown she opened her eyes. Tristan was sitting fully-dressed and with an expressionless face in the chair. 

Isabelle blinked a few times. Surely she had not dreamt it all. She propped herself on an elbow. No, she was sore in places she knew Celia wouldn't approve of and there was a scent around her that wasn't her own. A pleasant, musky scent.

"Good morning," she smiled sleepily.

Tristan didn't smile. He nodded tensely at her. He handed the chemise he'd been holding over to her. "Better put this on."

With a confused look in her eyes, Isabelle sat up straight. Tristan quickly looked elsewhere when the blanket fell down, exposing her. She wrestled with the wide cloth trying to pull it over her head with one arm. She left one sleeve empty, not bothering to try and put it on. Peeking inside the neckline at the bloodied bandage, she mumbled, "Dagonet is not going to like that."

"Tell him you had a nightmare," Tristan said coldly.

"Excuse me?"

"Unless you want your reputation damaged."

"My reputation? I don't give a damn about my reputation," Isabelle replied angrily. _What is he doing?_ she thought, frowning at him. "There was nothing wrong with what we did."

A cruel smirk appeared on Tristan's face. "You want it known you're an easy prey?"

"An easy prey?" she repeated with difficulty.

"Be sure, Gawain will be the first I tell. He'll like to know."

Her jaw dropped. "You bastard."

"I've never claimed to be anything else."

She stared in disbelief at the scout. "I believed – you made me think you – "

"I merely took what you blatantly offered. For free even."

"Get out!" Isabelle hissed. "Get out of my room!"

"It's still a few hours until morn. Go to sleep," he told her uncaringly.

"You cold-hearted, callous excuse for a man," she breathed.

Tristan ignored her.

Isabelle turned her back on him, feeling tears sting her eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry though, so she bit down on her lip hard enough to draw blood to keep herself from making a sound. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, stinging as much as if she had been pshysically slapped.

How could she have made such a mistake?

* * *

**A/N: (hides under desk)**


	20. Distance

**A/N:** Wow, what a response to the previous chapter! People are really divided into two camps: Gawain or Tristan. Which means I'm going to have to disappoint some people no matter what. Or... I don't suppose any of you have seen the Dutch film Liever Verliefd (love to love) which is about a woman who swears off all love after getting dumped by her (married) boyfriend and decides she'll only do what men do: have sex instead of fall in love. Then of course she falls in love with two men at the same time... Which is all pretty straightforward, except for the ending: she finds some remote island in the world where a woman can have two husbands and marries both of them.  
Maybe I should put that in my story ;) Nah, I already know what's going to happen, so one half will be disappointed. I hope I'll be able to explain why well enough to avoid flames and threats ;)  
Anyway, hope you like the next chapter and let me know!

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* * *

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**Distance**

Dagonet stopped in the doorway when he came to check on Isabelle the next morning. The icy atmosphere in the room was enough to stop an entire legion in its tracks.

Tristan got to his feet and slipped past Dagonet, never uttering a word.

"Isabelle?"

The bundle in the bed turned around and faced the worried knight. Her lips were tightly clenched. "Good morning, Dag," she said.

"What's going on?" he asked warily.

"What do you mean?" Isabelle said, staring hard into his eyes, daring him to say anything.

"Are you well?"

"I'm fine," she snapped.

"Good," Dagonet said slowly. "I'll make you some willow tea again to fight the pain."

Isabelle glanced quickly at her chest, before she said, "I'm not in pain."

Dagonet frowned and marched to the bed, pulling the chemise down her shoulder. "Not in pain?" he inquired angrily, looking at the bloodstained bandage. "What the hell is going on, Isabelle?"

"Nothing. I think I pulled some stitches in my sleep. Must have…had a nightmare."

Dagonet muttered some unpleasant things about trying to heal vexingly stubborn women and began to peel the bandage off to see what damage had been done. Suddenly his hands stilled.

Isabelle looked at his face and flushed when she saw him staring at her neck. Comprehension dawned on his face. Isabelle swore in silence when she realised not all marks were hidden under her undergarment.

Her face confirmed Dagonet's thoughts. But something was wrong. The bloodied bandage, the freezing feel to the room, Tristan's departure, Isabelle's clenched jaw, her comment about having had a nightmare. A horrifying suspicion surfaced in Dagonet's mind. It was almost beyond him to think this of his brother in arms, but he had to ask.

Dagonet swallowed with difficulty. "Did Tristan – has he – force –"

"No," Isabelle said immediately. "He did not. But I would appreciate it if you would not mention it to anyone. This is something between him and me."

"Did he do something else to you?"

"Dagonet," Isabelle pleaded. "Let it go. It is not your concern."

The knight looked about to argue with that, but she placed her hand on his. "It's fine. We just had...a difference of opinion about what happened. That's all."

Dagonet gave her a look that said he did not agree with this at all, but he continued his work in silence. "I'll have to replace the stitches here," he said quietly. "I'll be right back." He stood and left the room to get a needle and thread.

He found Isabelle rummaging through her chest for clothes when he returned. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting dressed. I know we agreed two more days in bed, but I very much need to get out of here," she said, not lifting her head to look at him. Her face was hidden behind a curtain of hair.

"You are hurt," he stated.

"Obviously," she snorted. "Someone I considered to be my friend put a knife in my shoulder."

"That's not what I meant," the large knight said gently.

Isabelle stiffened. She straightened herself and looked at him, her fist clenched around a tunic so tight her knuckles turned white. "Dagonet…" she began tensely. "I beg you, not another word. I have no desire to speak about it." Her fist trembled.

"Very well," Dagonet gave in. "Sit down. I'll do the stitches and you may get dressed."

"Thank you."

It only took a few moments to replace the stitches. Dagonet wrapped new bandages around her shoulder and chest. He bound her arm tightly to her body to give the injured shoulder more rest and helped her to put on her clothes.

Someone rapped on the door. "Come in," Isabelle called while she sat on her bed to put on her boots.

"You're up!" Galahad said surprised. "Dag, she's up."

"I noticed," Dagonet replied dryly, helping Isabelle lacing the boots. "Did you need me for something?"

"A messenger has arrived. From the coastal fort," Galahad sighed. "Arthur's called a meeting."

Isabelle quickly combed her hair and let it hang loose around her shoulders. Dagonet said nothing, but he knew she did it to hide the marks of her night with Tristan.

Galahad offered her his arm and they walked to the Hall.

Arthur smiled when he saw her enter. "It's good to see you on your feet again."

"Thank you, Arthur."

"And if you would please refrain from running into knives from now on, that would be even better," Lancelot added, raising an elegant eyebrow at her.

"Here, here," Gawain agreed.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Isabelle said indignantly. She had already made a move towards her usual seat, before she realised it would mean sitting next to Tristan, who had not uttered a word since she entered. She froze. Dagonet and Galahad walked past her to their seats.

Isabelle grabbed the seat next to Arthur with her good hand and sat down.

"Have you taken such a fancy to Kay that you're adopting his seat now?" Galahad laughed.

"I have," Isabelle answered.

She studiously avoided to look at Tristan throughout the meeting. She needn't have bothered though. The scout appeared not to be aware she even existed. When she glanced at him through her eyelashes, she felt the humiliation burn again. He had used her for his own pleasure and wasted not a moment to throw it back into her face.

Isabelle clenched her jaw, trying to listen to what Arthur was saying.

"…two more villages. Aulus Cassius has asked for our assistance in a raid. His scouts have tracked the band of Saxons."

"What are we waitin' for then?" Bors rumbled. "Let's send a few more of those ugly brutes to their underworld."

"Cassius asks that we join him as soon as possible. We leave as soon as you're packed," Arthur ordered.

"I don't think I'll be able to ride very well, Arthur," Isabelle said quietly.

Gawain almost had a fit. "You are not coming with us on a hunt for _Saxons_! Arthur, tell her! She is not –"

"Oh, you'll leave me here alone?" she interrupted him.

"I'm leaving you here with Kay!" he retorted.

"Gawain is right," Arthur said. "This is very different from a patrol. Besides, Cassius and his men wouldn't approve of your presence the way the knights and I do. I'd rather bring you along to let you stay in Cassius's fort, but we have to get there as soon as we can. You won't be able to keep up with your arm."

"It'll be hard protecting her anywhere if she keeps running towards an assassin," Tristan said.

Isabelle jerked her head towards him, glaring viciously. Tristan looked her impassively in the eye.

"Bastard," she hissed.

Arthur witnessed the exchange in surprise, shocked at the loathing that suddenly emanated from the woman next to him.

"A little more tact wouldn't kill you, Tris," Lancelot said. "She thought he was a friend."

"She made a mistake," Tristan replied.

"Indeed," Isabelle said icily.

Tristan stiffened slightly, almost unnoticeable for his brothers, who were as surprised as Arthur at the change between Isabelle and Tristan.

"I am placing you in Kay's charge," Arthur continued, glancing at Tristan every now and then, "but since I've also had to inform the legionaries about the threat you're in after your attack, you'll be even more protected."

"Protected by Romans," Isabelle mumbled. "This day is just getting better and better."

Arthur ignored the insult. "You'll be staying with Kay if he agrees, but I'm sure he will."

"How long will you be gone?" Isabelle asked Arthur, but her eyes had fixed themselves defiantly on the scout again.

"A few weeks is likely," Arthur answered. "Knights, I want to leave as soon as possible."

"Good luck." Isabelle looked at Arthur and smiled, raising her voice over the noise of chairs and loud voices. "Do try to come back in one piece."

"Only for you, my lady," Lancelot winked.

"No doubt," Isabelle retorted. "For me and the rest of the female half of the fort."

"It would be a shame if I were cut to pieces," Lancelot grinned roguishly. "What would you women do all day?"

Isabelle burst out laughing. The tension on her face slipped away. "Our lives would cease to have meaning."

"Isabelle," Arthur said, "I'll take you to Kay right now. Celia will bring you what you need later."

Gawain fell into step next to her when she walked out of the Hall with Arthur. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Isabelle answered curtly.

"Tristan can be a little terse sometimes," Arthur soothed, "but that's just him."

"I know."

"Then what was that display all about?" Gawain asked bewildered.

Isabelle's face tensed again. "Small disagreement, that's all," she shrugged. He would find out soon enough anyway, if Tristan held true to his word.

Arthur grunted in a fashion too vague for Isabelle to understand whether he believed her or not. They walked the few streets to Kay's smithy in silence.

"Of course she's staying here," Kay immediately consented, ushering the girl to a seat. "You can't have her tagging along like a bird with a broken wing."

Resigned, Isabelle listened to Arthur, Gawain, and Kay's litany about what to do and, more importantly, what not do to whilst the knights were away.

"Yes, Arthur," she nodded over and over again. "Of course, Arthur."

It was only when he and Gawain said goodbye to her that she realised they were going to hunt Saxons. _Saxons!_ "Wait!" she squeaked suddenly, jumping from her seat.

"What's wrong?" Gawain chuckled.

"Just…be careful," she mumbled. "No stupidities."

"I will keep an eye on them," Arthur promised her, placing a hand on her good shoulder.

Gawain seemed to hesitate for a moment, but stretched an arm out and pulled her into a hug, careful not to squash her wound against him. "Come here."

Isabelle leaned into him, knowing this would be the last time he would be so close to her. She cursed Tristan and her own idiocy in silence.

"I'll see you soon," Gawain said to her and let go.

Isabelle caught the meaningful look between Arthur and Kay and gritted her teeth. She regretted many things in her life, most of which had been beyond her power to stop. But last night's choice had been her own doing and the consequences were her own responsibility.

She stepped back from Gawain. "Bye," she said and turned around.


	21. Murder

**Murder**

Arthur rode through the gate, spurring his horse into a full gallop. He led his knights over the road next to the Wall. So close to the milecastles and turrets an attack by Woads was unlikely, so he did not ask Tristan to scout ahead.

The scout was already tired from his nightly watches. Arthur had not thought it possible, but the man was even quieter than usual. The commander held all his knights in high respect, but he found Tristan difficult to understand at times. He was an excellent scout and a brilliant swordfighter and archer, who had seen and survived more than any of them, but never once he needed comfort. Not from his fellow knights, nor from a lover. Tristan eyed the women of the fort in much the same calculated way as he observed his enemies.

In the first years of their service it had become obvious that Tristan had no need for the comradely affection that had quickly bloomed between the other knights. He hadn't been the only one back then. But as the years passed and their group had shrunk slowly but gradually, the bond between all the knights had tightened, smaller factions of friends vanishing into one group, including Tristan.

Personally, Arthur thought that process had done Tristan good. No man was made to be alone. The other knights knew of the scout's need for solitude and kept their distance whenever that need was evident, only to pull him back into their group when his mood changed.

Arthur had been forced to reprimand him for killing the Greek assassin. He had rather had the man alive to question him. Tristan had shrugged and continued to clean his sword, leaving it to Arthur to decide how to punish him.

Arthur had left it at a reprimand. He hadn't given specific orders to capture assassins alive and he could understand Tristan's motive for revenge. Protecting Isabelle had made her a large part of everybody's lives and it was only natural that they were affected by it, even Tristan.

He remembered the pale faces of the knights when Dagonet wasn't sure he could stop the bleeding. It had made Arthur's heart sink to his boots. He genuinely desired the young woman to find happiness and for her to die like this was wrong. Arthur had no other word for it. It was wrong.

Fearing another attack, Arthur had ordered that Isabelle was to be guarded at all times. It had caused a stream of protests from Celia, who was shocked at the idea of not only one, but several men in her lady's room. A stern look from Arthur had taken care of that.

Arthur sighed. He should not have agreed with Tristan taking the night watches by himself. The scout had insisted on it, telling him he did not have time for it during the day. Arthur had given in, but saw quickly that Tristan went without sleep the entire week. He was about to tell his scout that he was assigning the night watches to another when Cassius's messenger arrived.

Though Tristan looked not as tired as before – perhaps he had slept a little yesterday – Arthur doubted he was rested enough to track Saxons. He would insist on Cassius to wait another day before they sought out the Saxons.

Lancelot's voice shook him from his thoughts. "Arthur!" his friend called. He pointed at the fast nearing silhouette of the fort Pons Aelius. A group of cavalrymen exited through the gate, heading south to the bridge over the Tyne.

"Gaius Avitus and his men," Arthur deducted. "Cassius's messenger must have been to every fort between his and ours."

"How many Saxons are there exactly?" Lancelot asked dryly.

When the knights reached the group of the neighbouring fort, their leader rode forward. Arthur's brow furrowed. It wasn't Gaius Avitus. "Junius," he greeted Avitus's second in command. "On your way to Arbeia as well?"

"Aye, it's a bloody shame we don't have enough men to defend ourselves. These are all I can spare," Junius Livius growled. "I have to leave the fort heavily manned. The men have been uneasy since that catastrophe with Gaius."

"What catastrophe?" Arthur frowned.

"Gaius has been murdered. Have you not received word of that?" Junius Livius asked confused.

Arthur cursed. He had a feeling who was behind that. So his gut instinct telling him that he wasn't the only one on Maurus's list had been right. "No, I haven't," he answered.

Why anyone wanted Gaius Avitus dead was beyond him. The man had been just and honourable, commander of the only native British unit on the Wall. Arthur had known him since he was a child. He had often seen Gaius Avitus during his study with Pelagius.

"Did Gaius have enemies?" Arthur asked Junius.

"No, Artorius," Junius denied. "You know he was well-loved."

"Let's ride," Arthur said and steered his horse in the direction of the bridge. "What happened?"

"We don't know. Two weeks ago his squire found him in the morning, throat slit," Junius answered with a grim face.

"Two weeks?" Lancelot mumbled behind them.

Arthur turned in the saddle and nodded at the knight. "Then we have found your assassin."

"Assassin?" Junius repeated angrily. "This was the work of an assassin? Who would want Gaius dead?"

"The same as the one who wants Arthur dead," Lancelot answered.

"Artorius? He tried to kill you too?"

Arthur sighed. "A few months ago we captured an assassin in my room, a girl still. We made a bargain with her. She gave us the location of her master's estate in exchange for her life, but she did not know who is behind it all."

"You let her live?" Junius sputtered indignantly. "The penalty for attempted murder on a Roman officer is death!"

"I gave her a flogging," Arthur said, conveniently leaving out the part that this had happened before Isabelle's confession. "Besides, it's not her that you should be after. She was sold into slavery and obeyed her master's wishes. It's him I intend to bring to justice."

"Nevertheless –" Junius began.

"Junius," Arthur interrupted him. "We are discussing the life of a young girl who has been through more than anyone with a shred of decency would allow. Are you questioning my decision?"

Junius closed his mouth. "Of course not," he gave in.

"About ten days ago an assassin sent by the same man tried to kill her. It's likely he is Gaius's murderer."

"Should we not report this to the dux?"

"Without knowing who is behind it? We could alert him before we have the chance to find him."

"You think it's someone from the military?" Junius asked shocked.

"I have no idea, but I'd rather not take that risk."

"Arthur, if Maurus is still after Isabelle, he will be trying to cover up his other tracks as well. Assassinating civilians is one thing, but commanders of the army…" Lancelot said quietly. "That will not be _tolerated_ by anyone. He knows that Isabelle has leaked information; he could try to get away."

"I know. We should head south as soon as we can," Arthur agreed.

"I'll be more than happy to send men along with you," Junius growled.

"First things first," Arthur said, raising an eyebrow. "If we don't send these Saxons back to where they came from, we won't have to bother."

Junius nodded. "We'll probably meet Varinius and his men on the way. Cassius has sent a messenger to Segedunum as well and they passed the fort half an hour ago."

They had crossed the bridge and increased their speed again, wanting to reach Arbeia as soon as they could.

Aulus Cassius, commander of Arbeia, greeted them with a tense face in the courtyard. "Artorius, Junius, welcome."

Arthur clasped his arm. "Aulus." His knights were being brought to barracks prepared for them. He had given them – Tristan especially – a direct order to rest and sleep as much as they could.

"Rooms have been made available to you," Cassius said, "if you want to freshen up."

"That can wait," Arthur replied.

Junius nodded. "We'd better discuss our plans first."

"Good," Cassius said. "Varinius is waiting."

* * *

Tristan dropped his saddlebags on the floor, eyeing the small and hard cot with appreciation. He quickly took off his armour and cleaned off the dust before he pulled his tunic over his head. With a sigh he kneaded the muscles in his neck, listening to the voices of the other men. Junius's Corvenii, Varinius's men from Belgian tribes, and Cassius's warriors from the Tigris shores. 

"I see Isabelle is not the only one who's hurt," Dagonet's calm voice came from the doorway.

Tristan whipped around, hiding the scratch marks on his back from view. He glared at his brother, who was unfazed. "Do you want anything? I'm going to bed," Tristan snapped.

"What happened?"

"You know what happened," he retorted and sat down on the bed to take off his boots, his usual calm and precise movements brusque.

Dagonet watched him in silence. "I think I do," he mumbled eventually.

Tristan rolled on his back, ignoring him. Dagonet sighed and placed his own bags on another cot. "For your sake I hope you didn't push her too far away," he said, walking away and leaving Tristan to himself.

The scout slept all through the day and the night, waking just before dawn as always. Feeling refreshed, he prepared himself for the search, revelling in the upcoming hunt and fight. A good battle was all he needed. Nothing else.

* * *

Isabelle was bored to death. Kay watched her like a hawk. She cringed as the proverb made her think of Tristan, making her cheeks flame up again in shame. 

The knights had been gone for almost two fortnights. When they returned everything would be different. Mortified at the thought that everyone, and Gawain in particular, would know she had let Tristan use her as a plaything and discard her the next morning – no, the very same night, she leaped to her feet and paced around Kay's smithy.

Kay glanced at her from the corner of his eye, but didn't react. She had been restless ever since she had arrived.

Isabelle was grateful for Kay's silence. Vanora had not been so silent. The woman had managed to pry almost every detail from her, having noticed the girl's change in mood.

"What did you expect?" Vanora had asked her, not accusingly, but inquiring.

"I don't know!" Isabelle had answered agitatedly. She put her hands on her hips and frowned. "I really do not know what I expected. I didn't have time to expect anything. It just…happened."

"Then what –"

"But I do know what I did not expect!" Isabelle had continued heatedly. "I did not expect a treatment that even a common whore would object against!"

Continuing her pacing around the smithy, Isabelle huffed. She still stood behind that last declaration.

A loud shout from outside made her jump.

Kay wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stood up straight. "They're back. Come on."

Isabelle froze.

Kay turned around when she didn't follow him outside. "Imp, whether Gawain is dead or not, hiding in here won't make a difference," he sighed.

"What?" she squeaked. "Gawain? Dead?"

She realised Kay had mistaken her reluctance for fear of Gawain's safety. With a sickening turn of her stomach it hit Isabelle that she might not have to worry about Gawain's reaction at all. He could be dead. A fact that had been pushed to the back of her mind because of her other agonizing thoughts.

"Cease your fretting and let's go," Kay ordered. Numbly she walked after him through the streets to the gate.

Just as they arrived the gates opened and let in a stream of riders. Isabelle counted fifteen, riding at high speed to the gate that marked the military quarters.

"Something's wrong," Kay deducted, having seen the tense expression on his former commander's face.

Isabelle set off in the direction of the main building, but Kay grabbed her arm. "Arthur may not mind your presence, but his Roman guests will."

"I don't give a damn about Romans!" Isabelle hissed.

"Let's go back to the smithy and wait for someone to come for you," Kay reasoned with her. "They're all breathing, aren't they?"

Isabelle indeed had counted six Sarmatian knights and their commander, which had immediately loosened the knot in her stomach.

With an impressive glare Kay kept the gathered people at distance, so that no people with hidden weapons could 'accidentally' bump into them. He quickly led his charge back to his smithy.

"What do you think could be wrong?" Isabelle asked worriedly.

"Woads, Saxons, riots, civil war, rebellion…" Kay summed up. "Who knows?"

"Thank you," Isabelle replied sarcastically.

Fortunately they did not have to wait long. Dagonet opened the door and stepped inside. "Isabelle, Arthur needs you in the Hall."

She got to her feet. "I'll come back later, Kay."

"Not too much trouble, I hope?" Kay rumbled.

Dagonet said nothing, but merely sent the blacksmith a look that said the opposite.

"What's wrong?" Isabelle frowned.

"We have to go south now," Dagonet answered.

"South? To Maurus?" Isabelle inquired, her voice raising slightly.

Dagonet nodded. "Let's go. Everybody is waiting for you."

After that somewhat ominous statement Isabelle followed the knight outside, stopping in her tracks when she saw Gawain waiting outside, arms folded and a frown on his face.

"Gawain…" she said hesitantly.

His frown dissolved into a grin. "Such an enthusiastic greeting. Exactly what I have been waiting for all these weeks." He shook his head. "Gods, woman, get over here."

Isabelle let out a nervous chuckle when he pulled on her arm, bringing her into a warm embrace.

His arm still around her shoulder, he walked her to the main building, followed by Dagonet.

Gawain looked down at her. "How are you?"

"Healthy yet again," Isabelle answered. "And you?"

"Still healthy, except for a few cuts and bruises here and there."

"Nobody…?"

"No, nobody was gravely injured. We had a little trouble with Galahad. A Saxon sliced his leg. That's why we're so late; we had to wait a few days before he could ride."

Though befuddled by the knight's unchanged attitude towards her, Isabelle found her reserve as usual melting away in Gawain's presence. "How did the attack go?"

"Not bad. The other forts lost quite a few men, but the Saxons are defeated. Their raids are getting worse every year though."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that much longer, do you?" Isabelle said.

"Indeed," Gawain smiled. "Let the Romans worry about that."

The doors to the Hall swayed open and revealed the Table, at which several Roman officers were seated, who stood when they entered.

Isabelle's eyes widened and a whimper escaped her throat. When she turned her eyes to him, Arthur realised she thought he was handing her over to them.

"Isabelle…" he began, but she had already darted backwards and bolted out of the Hall.

"Well done, Arthur," Lancelot sighed. "Put her in a room full of Romans with no warning beforehand."

Aulus Cassius and Sabinus Varinius glared at him.

Gawain had turned and ran out of the Hall. "Isabelle, wait!" he roared.

Speeding up, he managed to catch up with her and stop her. "Listen!" he barked.

"Let me go," she panted, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "Please." Her eyes were wide open in fear.

Gawain swore. "Nobody is going to hurt you, Isabelle. Nobody," he said urgently.

Her eyes flicked from left to right, searching for an escape. He cupped her face between his hands. "Look at me," he ordered. "Look at me, Isabelle. Nobody will hurt you. Do you hear me?"

Isabelle stared at him.

"Breathe," he told her. "Calm down."

She took a deep quivering breath.

"Good girl," he soothed, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. "The Romans are only here because they want to hear about Maurus. He's killed more officers. They're here to devise a plan to arrest him. That's all. You're under Arthur's protection."

Isabelle visibly relaxed. "I thought – When I saw –" she began sheepishly.

"Nobody blames you for that," Gawain cut her off. "But everything's well."

"Sorry."

"We should apologize to you." With relief Gawain noticed she smiled. "Let's get back in there, shall we?"

Isabelle nodded, her cheeks turning pink when she realised Gawain's hands were still around her face.

His eyes slid over her face, before he let go of her. "Come on." They walked back into the Hall side by side.

* * *

**A/N: Whoohoo, such a fast update. I'm very proud of myself. So, about the chapter: the forts' names are actual names. You can look them up and see where I've placed Arthur's fort, which is of course close to the eastern coast, because in the film Arthur tells Ganis to track the coast line. The dux was the commander of the army in Britain, living in Eboracum (aka York).**

**Let me know what you think of the chapter!**


	22. Journey South

**A/N: I know I've introduced many characters from many different places. I hope it's clear enough from the story itself, but if it isn't, let me know and I'll add a little list.**

**As always lots and lots of thanks to those who reviewed! Your thoughts and opinions are appreciated.**

**_Tristran Awards_**

**_To my - and my plot bunny's - surprise and joy LegolasIsMine nominated my story for a Tristran Award! Thank you! Priestess of the Myrmidon is hosting these awards. Visit her profile for the link to the beautiful site she has created and I think I can speak for her if I say: nominate your favourite Tristran-centric story!_

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**Journey South**

Warily Isabelle stepped inside again.

"Forgive me," Arthur apologized. "We should not have frightened you so."

"It doesn't matter," Isabelle replied.

"This is Aulus Cassius, commander of the coastal fort Arbeia," Arthur introduced one of the officers. Isabelle nodded at the brown-haired man. Arthur continued with the dark-skinned man next to the Roman, "His second-in-command Behruz and one of his scouts: Seraphe."

A tall and blonde man was introduced as Sabinus Varinius of Segedunum and the black-haired and wiry commander of Pons Aelius was called Junius Livius.

Junius had brought three men with him, two with the same lean and sinewy appearance. Their names were Gethin and Dinadan. A heavier built man Junius called Lamorak.

"This is Isabelle," Arthur finished. The officers nodded at her. "Please, sit down," Arthur said, gesturing to the seat next to him.

Gawain walked to his seat, which left Isabelle standing alone. She quickly seated herself next to Arthur, keeping her eyes defensively on the Romans.

Arthur explained to her the reason for the sudden meeting, which had been Gaius Avitus's assassination in combination with Cassius's news that more soldiers had been found dead in several forts in northern Britannia.

"We have to get to Lindum as soon as we can to stop this Maurus," Varinius continued where Arthur had left off, "which will take us about a week if we don't want to kill our horses. We could travel the road to Eboracum, but I suggest we take more caution after that. Wouldn't want to alert anybody."

"Which is why we should not stop at any of the way stations for the night," Arthur agreed. "We'll sleep outside." Arthur rolled out a map on the table and pointed at a large city. The men gathered round the map. "After Eboracum the road leads straight to Lindum. Following it means we would have to pass through Petuaria near the coast and take a boat there to cross the Abus Fluvius."

"Better take that small western road," the man called Dinadan intervened. "We can find a ford further up the river and avoid being seen."

"After that we'll head south east again, but stay clear of the road. There are quite a few settlements, but we can avoid them," Arthur said. "That's where you come in, Isabelle."

"There," she said, tapping her finger on the map. "This road, between Lindum and Bannovallum, about halfway there's a small trail heading north. Maurus's estate is a few miles up that trail."

"Remote," Dinadan commented.

"Obviously," Isabelle retorted.

"How heavily guarded is that estate?" Junius asked her.

"Maurus has his own guard of about twenty mercenaries. When I left there were eight male assassins, two of which are dead now, and Amarante, a female, who is more specialised in poison. But make no mistake," she added as she heard a contemptuous snort, "she knows how to defend herself.

"Furthermore, there are about ten household slaves on the property," she concluded.

"Can you tell us about the estate itself?" Cassius asked. "A map perhaps?"

"Of course."

Arthur handed her a slate. Isabelle drew a large rectangle. "Here's the entrance. Above the gate there's a walkway for guards, and every corner of the wall has small watchtowers, but nothing in between."

"Are those towers to keep people out… or in?" Lancelot asked sharply.

Isabelle smiled fleetingly at him. "Both." She drew two long lines. "The road to the house. The stables are on the left, as well as the slave quarters and the mercenaries' quarters, the food store. On the right there's the training ground, a small bathhouse, and the assassins' quarters." She quickly made some markings.

"You can write?" Cassius asked incredulously. Several more of the men stared at her.

Isabelle flushed and said, "Aye, I can," so quickly that she received a few suspicious looks. Having no plausible explanation for her skill she continued with her description, ignoring the looks.

"Now, inside the house. Here's the atrium. There are bedrooms to the left and right; Maurus's is the second on the right," Isabelle said, her voice hardening suddenly. "Study straight ahead, a small garden; here are the kitchens."

Isabelle finished her sketch quickly. "It's not big, but that's why it can be defended easily."

"I say we go for a small group and infiltrate," Junius suggested.

Arthur, Varinius, and Cassius consented. "We leave at dawn," Arthur decided.

* * *

They left even before dawn and reached Pons Aelius just when the sky began to brighten. Junius Livius had decided to go south and left his fort in the hands of Gethin. Lamorak and Dinadan joined their commander in the journey. 

Behruz and Seraphe, both from Mesopotamia, stayed with the group while their commander Cassius returned to Arbeia. Sabinus Varinius said goodbye too at Pons Aelius and left for Segedunum.

Junius and Arthur set off at a brisk pace, telling the others they wanted to have left the more southern situated fort Concangis at least ten miles behind them before nightfall.

Isabelle moaned softly and shifted apprehensively in the saddle when she did a quick sum in her head. They were going to have to help her get down from her horse tonight.

"Relax your legs," Gawain and Lancelot said simultaneously.

"You're only going to make it worse if you keep riding so tensely," Lancelot added with a hint of pity.

"It's the knowledge that I'm going to be in misery later that is making me tense," Isabelle replied.

"At least you get to come along," Gawain shrugged. Galahad had been forced to stay at the fort, because of the injury to his leg. Despite his angry protests, Arthur had insisted that over 150 miles of horseback riding would not do his leg much good, sending Galahad into one of his sulking moods.

Gawain had asked him if he rather wanted to become a cripple, in which case he would gladly be of assistance and cripple his friend himself if he did not stop his whining.

Isabelle had comforted Galahad by saying he would have plenty of time to spend with Celia. Despite his leg Galahad proved to still be quite fast and Isabelle had to run for cover, followed by Gawain's roaring laughter.

Isabelle chuckled and shifted again in the saddle as she remembered the look of pure outrage on Galahad's face.

Lancelot glanced sideways at her. "You're not laughing at our poor, wounded pup, are you?"

"I wouldn't dare," Isabelle assured him, turning a giggle into a cough.

Although it was easy to avoid Tristan during the day, it turned out to be more difficult when the group set up camp in a small clearing a little away from the road. By the time everyone was settled around the fire she had bumped into him three times, jerking away from his nearness every time.

Staring into the flames she pondered whether he had redeemed himself a little by keeping his mouth shut. With a scoff she stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth. The man always kept his mouth shut; it was no particular effort.

Dinadan, who was sitting next to her, handed her a flagon of ale. He eyed her curiously. She noticed most of the other men did. "Thank you," she mumbled and continued to watch the fire, listening to the quiet talk of the others.

After two days of inescapable proximity it became clear that ignoring each other didn't work and so a forced politeness was formed between Isabelle and Tristan. The fact that they were again on what looked like speaking terms also stopped the questioning looks between the other knights.

Nevertheless, they kept clear of each other as much as they could. Tristan often rode ahead with Junius's scout Dinadan and the dark Seraphe. Isabelle rode in the middle of the group, sometimes accompanied by Arthur or Lancelot, but most of the time by Gawain.

They reached Eboracum late in the afternoon on the fourth day of their journey. Not wanting to alert anybody to their presence, Arthur and Junius looked for an inn.

"Mercenaries," Junius answered the innkeeper's questions with a blank face, "on our way to our next employment."

The innkeeper's eyes lingered on Isabelle, who raised a haughty eyebrow and sent him a glare. After glancing at Behruz, who was particularly fierce-looking, and the knights, he decided it was a plausible story.

"We're a bit full at the moment," the innkeeper began slyly, "so…"

"We've got enough gold to pay," Lancelot barked.

"Of course, of course," the fat man hurried to say. "This way, please."

The innkeeper showed them two small rooms, the only ones vacant according to him, and asked an exorbitantly high price, but Arthur paid without protest. The inn was disreputable enough for their secretive journey, and it was too late already to find another inn.

The men and Isabelle quickly divided themselves over the two rooms. "You take the bed, Isabelle," Arthur said gallantly.

Isabelle stared at the flea-infested structure with distaste. "No, thank you. I'll sleep on the floor."

"Need a pillow?" Lancelot offered, spreading his arms widely.

"The way you smell? Again, no thank you," she retorted.

"I'll have to warm myself with dreams of Vanora then," he shrugged, a grin appearing on his face when Bors's nostrils flared in anger.

"You do that," Isabelle said, spreading her cloak on the floor.

Junius leaned in the doorway. "Let's see what this innkeeper serves for supper, shall we?"

Supper turned out to be a watery soup, but at least the bread was fresh.

Gawain leaned over to Isabelle. "Did you leave your weapons upstairs?" he inquired quietly.

"No," she murmured back.

"I don't trust those men over there." Gawain nodded covertly at another group of guests in the inn. "Be careful."

"I can take of myself."

Gawain grinned. "I wasn't worried about you; I'm concerned about _their_ health."

Isabelle returned the grin. She had noticed the stares of the other group as well. "They're harmless lambs. Probably worried what a lovely little girl such as myself is doing in the company of you brutes."

"You wound me," Gawain rumbled.

"I beg your forgiveness, sir," she drawled.

Gawain snorted. "Sure you do." He traced a finger over her cheek. "A little water would become you. You're covered in dirt."

"As are you," Isabelle said indignantly, rubbing her hand over the smear on her face. "But I wouldn't mind a thorough scrubbing. I feel as if grass is beginning to sprout on my head."

"Keeper!" Gawain bellowed.

The innkeeper scurried closer.

"You have a place to wash up?"

"There's a bathhouse five blocks away, but you're welcome to use the pump next to the stables," the man offered.

"I'll take the pump," Isabelle said and stood. After walking to their room to fetch her bag, the innkeeper directed her to the pump. For once grateful for Celia's fussing, she unwrapped a small package that revealed a comb and soap and… Isabelle rolled her eyes, picking up the phial of rose oil. "Unbelievable," she muttered.

At one time Celia had been the maid of Andrivete, the former commander's mistress – and Kay's lover, and apparently old habits died hard. Even after ten years of looking after only men, Celia still remembered how to take care of a woman properly. _Too bad our definitions of _properly _differ_, Isabelle thought and put the phial down again.

She unlaced her vest and took it off, along with her tunic underneath. Dressed in only her breastband and her breeches she used the pump to wet her hair and rubbed the soap in it with pleasure, making a mental note to thank the relentless maid.

Isabelle rinsed out her hair and used a rag to wash herself, dressing quickly again as she began to shiver in the cool evening air. Untangling her hair with her comb she walked inside again.

"That's better," she laughed at Gawain from the other side of the tap-room. "I suggest you –"

She was cut off as two hands grabbed her roughly and pulled her into a lap. "Don't you clean up nice without all that dirt," a voice panted in her ear. "I'm sure your companions won't mind sharing their bed-warmer."

"Get your hands off me!" Isabelle raged as the man's hands began to feel her up.

The knights jumped to their feet, but Isabelle's hand had already flashed upwards and smashed the man's nose. She pushed herself off his lap. Blood spurting from his nostrils, the man shouted, "Whore!"

Gawain, Behruz, Lancelot, and Tristan drew their swords.

"I don't want no trouble!" the innkeeper roared.

"Trouble?" Isabelle hissed. "There's no trouble. Do you see any trouble?" she asked the bleeding man.

Arthur and Dagonet unsheathed their weapons threateningly.

"No," the man gasped. "No trouble."

"See? Nothing to worry about." She walked to her seat and sat down, reaching for a mug of ale.

Still seated, Bors cackled and began to use his dagger to pick the dirt from under his nails.

The others sat down again, lowering their weapons. "Remind me never to anger you," Dinadan said, trying to control his grin.

"Teach Vanora that trick, will you?" Bors requested with an evil look at Lancelot, who raised his hands in innocence.

"Perhaps it's better if we retreat to our rooms," Arthur said with his eyes on the other guests. "Too much attention here."

"I agree," Junius said.

The group cautiously made their way upstairs. Inside their room Arthur said, "I'll take the first watch."

"Wake me in two hours," Lancelot immediately added.

Isabelle marvelled at the effortless cooperation between the knights and insisted on taking a watch too, but Arthur said it wasn't necessary.

"I'd rather contribute something too, Arthur," Isabelle pressed. Bors said he would wake her two hours before dawn, so she could help him stay awake.

"Thanks, Bors." She rolled herself in her cloak and closed her eyes.

More than two hours later she still hadn't been able to fall asleep. She had heard Arthur wake Lancelot a little while ago. Sighing in irritation, she shifted.

By the time Lancelot woke Dagonet, the shifting had turned into tossing. The hard floor didn't improve things, but Isabelle had a hunch what was really upsetting her.

Maurus.

They were halfway through their journey and Maurus and her past were drawing closer. It weighed heavily on her. With every step her horse took, it brought her closer to his claws again. A vague sense of unrest troubled her and it was getting worse.

A voice hoarse with sleep snapped her out of her brooding. "What ye doing?" Gawain asked.

"Can't sleep," Isabelle whispered.

A hand grabbed her cloak and pulled it back over her shoulders. "Stop tossing and just rest then." The hand squeezed her shoulder, before it was pulled back.

Dagonet watched the exchange in silence.

Despite Gawain's advice, Isabelle could get no rest and the next night the nightmares returned. She found herself waking in the middle of the night, bathing in sweat and panting fearfully, staring at the night sky with wide eyes.

"'S all right," Gawain's low voice slurred soothingly. "'S just a dream." A muscular arm slid out from under a thickly woven cloak and wrapped itself around her waist, pulling her against his warm and hard body.

Isabelle sighed and snuggled under the cloak.

"Go to sleep," she heard Gawain mumble behind her, his breath warm on her neck. "I've got you."

Both soon fell asleep, unaware that they were watched again, this time by another. The soft crackling flames were reflected in golden eyes as their owner looked away.

* * *

**A/N: A few place names:  
**Abus Fluvius: Humber.  
Eboracum: York  
Petuaria: Brough  
Lindum: Lincoln 


	23. Infiltration

**Infiltration**

Thanks to the three scouts it was easy to avoid the settlements between Petuaria and Lindum. The group avoided the latter city altogether and circled around it in a wide line.

At night eleven men and one woman crouched in the thick underbrush of a forest, discussing their plan quietly.

Isabelle's heart was beating loudly in fear. All she wanted was to just get away from here. Glancing at her left, she could see part of the wall of Maurus's estate through the trees and it made her want to flee. Flee anywhere, back to Hadrian's Wall, back to safety. Hide in someone's arms.

A forgotten memory suddenly washed over her. Soft, protecting arms that rocked her to and fro and a vague scent of lavender. "_Mère_," Isabelle breathed surprised. She exhaled carefully to control herself as she listened to Arthur and Junius, a new surge of panic taking hold of her.

A rough hand grabbed her own and squeezed it. "You can stay outside if you want too, you know that," Gawain assured her. He was worried about her. In mere days the tough, brave young woman he had come to know had been reduced to a trembling and frightened little rabbit.

He gritted his teeth. All because of one man. Maurus. Gawain vowed to himself that the man would pay. He didn't care how, and he didn't care who did it, but happen it would.

Isabelle shook her head. "I'm coming. _I_ know the way."

Dinadan slid silently from a tree near her, making her jump. "Guard just changed," he said quietly. "It's still clouded. They won't be able to see a thing in this darkness."

They waited…and waited. As if by an invisible sign, four figures suddenly left the group, nothing more than shadows between the trees.

Isabelle sneaked towards the wall, very much aware of Tristan, Seraphe, and Dinadan's presence in front of her and behind her. Now that she was able to do something, the almost paralysing fear subsided; she know felt the familiar tension in her body that had kept her alert – and alive – on all her other missions.

The long section of the estate wall loomed in front of her. They approached the middle of it. The watch towers were far on their left and right. Behind the wall, Isabelle knew, were the mercenaries' quarters.

Tristan reached the wall and turned around, leaning his back against it. Dinadan walked past her and placed his foot in Tristan's intertwined hands, who pushed him upwards. Dinadan heaved himself on top of the wall. When he had steadied himself, he signalled at Isabelle.

She copied his actions and let herself be pushed towards Dinadan by Tristan. The Briton grabbed her wrist and helped her up. She moved over to make room for Seraphe, who climbed swiftly on the wall.

Both men leaned down with one hand. Tristan jumped and caught their wrists, using them to walk up the wall.

The knight threw his upper body over the wall and immediately turned himself around and let himself hang from his hands on the wall's other side before he jumped the remaining feet, any sounds absorbed by the earth on which he landed. Seraphe followed.

Dinadan sat hunched on the wall, his eyes shooting from left to right.

Isabelle lowered herself in Tristan's fashion down the wall and let go, only to find her fall broken by two hands around her waist, who gently put her on the ground.

Startled she looked over her shoulder, but Tristan had already turned himself away from her, searching for danger. She heard a soft thud when Dinadan jumped down.

The four of them advanced on the mercenaries' quarters. There was only one entrance and no windows large enough to climb out of. Not many mercenaries would be in there. Isabelle knew there were four guards on the walkway above the gate, and four guards in the watch towers, one in each. Since there would also be two guards next to the door of the house, she deducted there would be about ten sleeping men in the building.

Tristan and Dinadan quickly searched for something to barricade the entrance with, but couldn't find anything. This was a minor setback, but they didn't have the time to search much longer.

Isabelle led the way to the gate, knowing exactly how stay out of sight, as she had done this many times before when she was still enslaved. A faint shadow of freedom it was, being able to sneak around the estate unseen, but it was better than nothing. When she could see the walkway, she gestured at the men to stop.

They crouched in the shadows. Isabelle held up four fingers. The others nodded and slowly got out their bows. Though it meant she would have to get closer to the guards, they had decided not to let Isabelle use a bow. Her aim was simply not good enough. She fingered the slender, light dagger that was easy to throw and began to creep towards the stairs.

The men waited until she was in position before they let their arrows loose. The moment Isabelle heard the typical whistling sound of a fired arrow she threw her dagger at the nearest guard.

All four guards went down. Soundlessly she ran upstairs, prepared to slit the throat of any who would call out. She needn't have bothered; the scouts' aims were flawless. Three arrows neatly protruded from the throats of the guards.

She jerked her dagger back and ran downstairs again, heading towards the gate where she was joined by the other three. Together they lifted the beam and opened the gate just far enough to let a man through. A moment later eight figures had slipped through the opening. Lancelot and Gawain turned left to take out the guard in the watchtower, while Lamorak and Dinadan did the same on the right.

Isabelle thought she heard a soft cry to her right and stiffened, as did the others who waited by the gate. With bated breath she waited for a call to alert the estate.

It didn't come. The four warriors returned, having succeeded.

The group divided into three. Bors and Dagonet stayed behind at the gate. Junius led his men and the Mesopotamians to the main house via the left side of the estate and Arthur went right, letting Isabelle take the lead.

Her steady pace faltered as they passed the training grounds. Her eyes lingered on the pole that dominated the open space, a reminder of the powerlessness of a slave.

The knights saw a heavy tremor wrack her body and exchanged worried glances. Gawain wasn't the only one who had noticed the change in her. Before they could say anything, Isabelle squared her shoulders and walked on, crossing the open distance to the bathhouse in a low run. One by one the knights followed.

Isabelle's urgent hand gesture made it clear that absolute silence was required. She inched forward and spied around the corner. Two men left the bathhouse, their voices a gentle murmur in the night's air.

She waited until the two had entered the small building that was used as the sleeping place for the assassins before she retreated behind the bathhouse again.

"Landulf and Thiadrad," she whispered.

"We have to check the bathhouse," Arthur whispered back.

Isabelle nodded and turned to sneak towards the entrance.

"Tristan, follow her," Arthur ordered.

Isabelle stepped inside the bathhouse, letting her eyes adjust to the soft light. Slowly she unsheathed a knife, careful not to make a sound.

She felt Tristan's presence behind her, doing the same. She pointed her finger to the left, indicating she would go that way.

That moment they both heard a soft humming and before they had time to hide a slave women appeared from the back of the building, carrying a large pile of used cloths.

She froze when she saw Isabelle. "Anwen?"

"Shh," Isabelle silenced her. "Be quiet, Deima."

"What are you doing here? Don't you know…" Her voice faltered when she saw the looming silhouette behind the assassin. "What – who's that?" she asked frightened.

Tristan stepped from the shadows. The woman's jaw dropped at the sight of the dark and feral figure.

Horrified Isabelle realised Deima was about to scream. "Shh! Keep quiet!" she hissed, but Deima had already taken a large breath.

Something flew past Isabelle's head. Deima crumpled into a heap on the floor, her scream dying in her throat.

Isabelle swore and rushed over to the slave's body, pulling the dagger from her neck.

"She didn't suffer long," Tristan said behind her.

Isabelle clenched her fist around his weapon. "How would you know?" she spat. "Have you ever died before?"

She thrust the dagger into his hand and stood.

"She would have exposed us all." Tristan looked around. "Are there any more exits?"

"No."

"Watch the entrance; I'll search the rest." Without waiting for her reply, Tristan stepped past her, the bloodied dagger still in his hand.

Isabelle posted herself at the door, making sure she stayed out of the light that would betray her in an instant.

Tristan didn't take long to finish. They returned to the waiting knights.

"Building's empty," Tristan reported, ignoring the stiffening of Isabelle's body next to him.

"We move on," Arthur decided. "No sound."

Knowing there were at least two assassins awake Isabelle crossed the path between the bathhouse and the sleeping quarters as silently as she could and wordlessly prayed that the knights would do the same.

She hoped Junius and his group would be in place as well. She crept forward and peeked around the corner, observing the entrance to the manor. As she had expected, two mercenaries were on guard next to the door.

She pulled back and looked at the others. "Dinadan is in place," Arthur said to her, his mouth close to her ear. She nodded and began to make her way to the estate wall on their right, to slip past the guards and reach the side of the house.

The watchtower at the back of the estate was still far enough for her to avoid being seen and she got to the house quickly. Isabelle pressed her back against the cool limestone.

The knights watched apprehensively as she moved closer to the front of the house. Crouching deeply, she leaned to the side ever so slightly so she could see the guard.

She pulled back slowly, chewing her lip. The guards were talking to each other, which meant that the one closest to her had his back on her, but the other one was facing her.

She would be seen before she had the chance to silence one of them.

The guard's voice made her freeze. "What's that?"

"What?" the other guard asked.

"I heard something there."

Isabelle knew for certain she had not made a single sound, and though it made her heart leap in her throat, she leaned to the side again and looked.

Both guards had their backs on her now, peering into the darkness. _Dinadan! A sneak if I ever saw one! _she exulted at the guards' expense. Stealthily she slipped around the corner, took the few steps to the nearest guard and clamped her hand around his mouth, slitting his throat with the other.

The other guard turned around in shock at the moan behind him, but was overpowered by Dinadan who grabbed his head and twisted it forcefully. The sickening crack made Isabelle's skin crawl.

They let the bodies gently sink to the ground. Dinadan inclined his head to Isabelle.

The next phase of the plan was set in motion. Isabelle knew that Tristan would take out the guard in the watchtower to the right, and Seraphe would do the same with the guard on the left corner. Then they would enter the house by climbing the wall to the back, landing in the garden.

Arthur and Junius would take the front entrance with Gawain, Dinadan, Behruz, and herself, leaving Lamorak and Lancelot to guard the door.

Isabelle turned her head to look at the assassin's quarters. She touched Arthur's shoulder and pointed at the building.

"No." Arthur's voice was soft, but stern.

"I have to see if Amarante is here," Isabelle said quietly. "She has saved my life – in more than one way," she added under her breath, remembering the contraceptive seeds the Greek woman had provided her with. "You don't need me in there. It's a standard Roman house."

"If you're caught…" Arthur hissed.

"Let her go, Arthur," Gawain spoke. Though he did not like it, he could see Isabelle would not give in. This was something she had to do.

Isabelle sent him a grateful look and strode purposefully to the place she had spent almost two years in.

Her soft leather shoes made no sound on the tiled floor. She passed several doors on her left and right. Landulf and Thiadrad's room, Cison's, Larce's, Briar's… Agron's door was opposite of Amarante's. Isabelle hoped she could convince him to surrender to Arthur. Agron was still very young and not yet ruined by the bloodshed the others had seen.

Briar was the worst of them. His cold eyes would tell anyone immediately not to expect mercy of any kind. He was frighteningly good at what he did. Unlike the rest of them, he was not a slave. Maurus had set him free, but Briar had stayed and continued his profession.

Amalric had been a perverted swine that you could not trust with a subtle job, but if you wanted a shock-effect, he was the perfect man.

Landulf and Thiadrad worked as a pair; both from the same Germanic tribe. If you saw one, you knew the other was close. If you couldn't see the other, you knew you had to be very careful.

Cison, a very small man, but therefore all the more faster, had developed a taste for blood in the years he had spent on the estate, as had Larce.

Besides Agron they had all developed some sense of loyalty to their master Maurus and Isabelle knew she would never be able to convince them.

Amarante was a different story. No one was sure what went on inside her head. She was an exotic beauty with hair so black it had a blue shine, charcoal eyes and a golden skin. She knew how to kill and how to heal, how to seduce and how to intimidate. She had never told Isabelle the exact circumstances, but Isabelle knew the Greek woman and Maurus had some sort of agreement. He would not take her into his bed, and she would kill others instead of him.

Despite her knowledge of this pact, Isabelle felt she had no choice. She owed it to Amarante to offer her a chance to escape. She stopped in front of the poison mixer's door and opened it slightly.

Amarante was asleep. Isabelle slipped inside, closing the door carefully. She edged closer to the bed, but Amarante remained asleep.

Quickly Isabelle clasped her hand over the other woman's mouth and whispered in her ear. "It's me: Anwen. Be still."

Amarante shot up straight and stared at her. "What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed when Isabelle removed her hand.

"Setting things straight."

Comprehension dawned on the older woman's face. "You've brought him here. That Roman."

"Yes. Be glad it's me who did it. There is uneasiness in all forts in the north. Soldiers are killed randomly. Sooner or later somebody would have found out who's behind it and come down here. Then you wouldn't have had a chance to escape."

Amarante's black eyes twinkled. "Is that why you're here? To offer me an escape?"

"Yes. You've saved my life more than once. The least I can do is repay you for one of those times."

There was a coldness in Amarante's response. "You killed Kallias. Tell me why I should not repay you for that."

"It was not I who killed him," Isabelle replied. "'T was one of Arthur's knights, who repaid Kallias for almost killing _me_."

"And so it is all intertwined," Amarante sighed.

"Hush," Isabelle breathed and listened intently. She flung herself just in time to the wall behind the door.

It opened. Isabelle pressed herself against the wall, fighting the urge to close her eyes in fear.

"Who are you talking to?"

She could recognize the voice a mile away. Low, and with a rasp that told the tale of an almost-fatal strangling. Briar.

Amarante gave a low chuckle. "To myself, I'm afraid. I had a nightmare. Why, you wish to comfort me?"

Isabelle heard a snort. "I'll be damned before I let myself fall into your clutches, vixen," Briar drawled.

"I'll have you in my clutches before long, Briar," Amarante purred, drawing out his name to almost a moan.

"Goodnight," Briar said dryly and closed the door.

Amarante placed her finger on her lips, telling Isabelle to be silent. Only when they heard footsteps moving away from the room and the thud of a door closing further on, Isabelle moved back to the bed.

"Who's at the estate?" Isabelle asked.

"Briar, Thiadrad, Landulf, Cison, and Agron. Maurus hasn't heard from Larce in weeks. He's probably dead."

"So do you accept my offer?"

"Does Maurus stand any chance of winning this?"

"No."

"Then of course I accept."

* * *

Arthur waited for the rest of the men to return to the atrium. They had searched every inch of the place - several times, but there was no sign of its wretched owner. Several slaves were huddled together like cattle in one of the bedrooms, guarded by Seraphe. 

Junius paced around agitatedly. "Where the hell is that man?"

"Nothing," Gawain grunted annoyed as he returned from the back of the house. The others answered in the same fashion when they came back.

"Where could he be?" Arthur wondered.

"We haven't checked the mercenaries' quarters," Dinadan said. "There was nothing to barricade the door with."

Junius swore.

Arthur shook his head. "We've been here in the house for how long? Almost an hour. What business would Maurus have there for so long?"

"An hour?"

They all turned to Gawain at the strange note to his voice.

"Where is Isabelle?"

* * *

**A/N: gasp! Cliffhanger! Anyways, thank you for all those wonderful reviews; you make my day :) You know, lots of people seem to want Isabelle to end up with Tristan ( is that English?). I wonder why... let me know what you think of that!**


	24. Broken

**Broken**

She couldn't move. Oh God, she couldn't move. She could almost smell her own fear as she stared at the shape filling the doorway.

"Well, well, well," Maurus Tertius Tullius sneered. "If it isn't our beloved little Anwen. Have you missed me so much that you're returning willingly now?"

Isabelle remained silent, incapable of speaking. She had no way of escaping. Still in Amarante's room, Maurus occupied the only exit and the window was far too tiny for her to climb out.

Desperation firmly wrapped its fingers around her throat.

"Has something happened to your speech? I seem to recall you had no trouble voicing your sentiments in the past," Maurus continued maliciously. "I can't say this is an improvement. You know I do love to hear you scream."

Trying to control her trembling, Isabelle clenched her fists. She hated how he made her feel helpless.

Maurus turned his eyes to Amarante. "Care to explain?"

Amarante shrugged elegantly. "She showed up in my room. I've been trying to keep her talking. I didn't know what she would do."

Isabelle knew Amarante was trying to save her own skin. Though she had lost her last ally in the room, she could not blame the other woman for it. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling them burn behind her eyelids. She could not show Maurus vulnerability; he would devour her.

_Hide!_ a little voice urged her. _Hide!_

Hide where?

_Inside._

The mask she hadn't had to use in months instantly formed on her face again, as if it had never been gone. _Protect yourself. Don't let him see you. Don't let him hurt you. _

"Is she alone?" Briar asked from his position behind Maurus. He was flanked by Cison, Thiadrad and Landulf. Agron stood behind them, a little hesitantly.

"No," Amarante answered. "She's brought _him_ here."

Fury suddenly marred Maurus's coarse features. "Traitorous whore!" he bellowed.

"I've never sworn allegiance to you," Isabelle hissed furiously, against better judgment.

Maurus leaped forward and slammed her against the wall, large fists grabbing her throat.

_Hide! Hide!_

She stared passively over his shoulder, too withdrawn to care about her protesting empty lungs.

"Where is he?" Maurus growled. "How many did he bring?"

Isabelle choked, the lack of air causing her to slip from consciousness. With a disgusted face Maurus threw her on the ground.

She coughed violently when her body eagerly tried to draw breath. She lifted herself off the floor and sat back on her heels, rubbing her throat. With a venomous smirk she looked up at her tormenter. "Rot in hell."

Her head snapped backwards when Maurus backhanded her. "Don't toy with me, slave," he threatened. "I can do whatever I want with you. And believe me, I will."

"You'll be dead within the hour," Isabelle taunted him. "Do your best."

"Maurus, kill her," Briar said. "It's not too late; the demand for Artorius's death still stands. We can finish it now."

"You'll never be able to kill him," Isabelle spat.

"That's where you're wrong, slave," Maurus retorted. "_You_ weren't able to kill him. I am."

Isabelle gave a mocking scoff. "You won't get within twenty feet of him."

"Are you challenging me, slave?" Maurus asked while he lowered himself to get eye-level with her.

In a flash Isabelle drew a dagger and held it at his throat. "Yes I am, you piece of filth," she growled.

"Why don't you do it then?" he asked in an almost luring voice. "Why didn't you start fighting the moment I came in? What is keeping you?"

"Shut up!" she hissed.

Maurus chuckled. "Is it perhaps because you know you don't have a chance against six of us? This mystifies me, though. You've never held back to protect yourself. Why the sudden change, I ask myself."

"I said shut up!" Isabelle snapped, a slight tremor now in her voice. "Or shall I cut out your tongue?"

Maurus leaned his face closer to hers, smirking when he noticed the stiffening of her body. "Come on, do it," he cooed. "Do it and you'll be dead in a moment, just like you want to be."

Isabelle didn't move.

He raised an eyebrow. "No? Why not?"

She pressed her blade closer to his neck, baring her teeth. "I told you to shut up."

"Fascinating. Don't you want to die?" He kept Briar at distance with a wave of his hand. "Is it perhaps so that you've discovered you like life better than death? Did your little excursion to the north give you the idea that you're worthy of life?"

Curling his upper lip, he sneered, "Then know that you are not. You're worth less than the dirt on my sandals. I'd spit on you if that wasn't too much honour for you. You're nothing; a slave. I own you. You don't have a life. You exist; that's all. You exist to serve me."

Isabelle tightened her grip on her dagger to hide the shaking. "I don't hear you."

"You hear me," Maurus hissed. "I own you. I own every bit of you and you know it. Whatever you do, you'll never be free. You don't deserve to be free. You're nothing."

"Shut up," Isabelle whispered, a sob in her throat.

"Weak, worthless scum. Filth. My property. I'll be there wherever you go. You know you're mine."

Isabelle cringed with every word he spoke. "I'm not," she choked.

"Don't fool yourself." He reached for her arm and grabbed her wrist. "Everything that you are, pitiful creature, is what I made you."

A soft cry left her lips when he touched her.

"Slave," he sneered. Isabelle looked away, her face pained.

She yelped in pain when he jerked her hand away from his neck and smacked her across the face.

Maurus grabbed her chin forcefully while he wrenched the dagger from her grip. With contempt he looked at her. "So easy to break again. There's hardly any sport in it anymore."

"Maurus," Briar began, "we have to act fast."

"No worry, my friend," Maurus replied silkily. "Anwen is going to tell us how many men Artorius has brought and where they are. She would never dream of disobeying her master again."

Still holding her chin painfully tight he looked her in the eye. "Where are they?"

Isabelle managed a smirk on her face. "Everywhere."

"Stop fighting me, Anwen," Maurus said softly. "It's no use. You don't want to die, do you?"

She cringed at the sound of his voice. He was right; she didn't want to die. Not anymore. She felt her hair stand on end when it hit her that this gave him even more power over her. She _cared_. She cared what he did to her. She was vulnerable. And he knew it.

Maurus sneered when he saw the realisation in her eyes. "Exactly. Now, Anwen, for the last time: where are they?"

Isabelle lowered her eyes in defeat. "In the house."

* * *

"WEAPONS!" Lancelot bellowed as he and Lamorak stormed inside, closing the front door. 

"How many?" Arthur barked.

"Fifteen."

"Bows," Arthur ordered. The three scouts positioned themselves in front of the door.

"Weapons at the ready," Junius growled to the others.

The door was not barricaded and burst open in mere seconds, men spilling inside. Three were immediately taken down by arrows, but the group spread quickly and engaged the other knights.

The scouts tossed their bows aside and drew their other weapons.

The fight turned into chaos instantly. There was hardly any room to fight and anyone could be hit by a friend as easily as by a foe.

With a vexed roar Behruz threw a vase at his opponent. The tiny man was not dressed as a soldier, so the Mesopotamian deducted this was an assassin, and probably the one Isabelle had called Cison. The man was ridiculously fast and had challenged the much larger and heavier Behruz.

Behruz knew the assassin planned to use his strength and lack of speed against him, but could do nothing to stop him. He was too fast and stayed out of his reach. Cison kept lashing out, doing little more than poking him and aggravating him further.

Gawain had also trouble fighting his opponent off. In fact, there were two. He knew that two attackers often got in each other's way and that this was an advantage to the one being attacked, but not in this case. The two assassins seemed to be manifestations of the same mind. They worked together flawlessly, driving Gawain into a corner.

Growling in frustration he blocked another attack from the left, turning immediately to the right because the other assassin would be coming from there.

Instead a flaming pain erupted from his left side when a knife slashed him. Gawain cursed foully and quickly brought his hand to the wound. _Just blood_, he thought relieved. _Not my innards._

He knew he had to stay focussed. These two vultures would finish him in a moment if he let the blood loss and the nagging worry about Isabelle get in his way. He narrowed his eyes at them and snarled viciously.

Lancelot pulled his swords from the body of a young man with disgust. He didn't look any older than Isabelle. The boy's face was contorted in a gruesome expression of surprise and pain.

Lancelot looked up and saw Behruz go down with glazed eyes, blood gushing from his mouth. His killer jumped away from the body and turned his head in search of a next victim. Sneering at the little man, Lancelot pointed his sword at him. "Over here, dwarf!"

Tristan had got rid of most of the mercenaries with Dinadan and Seraphe when a pained cry made him whirl around to see Gawain stumble backwards against the wall, pressing his hand against his ribs. His armour was stained with blood from several wounds.

Two men advanced on the wounded knight with a predatory look in their eyes. Gawain glared derisively at them and took a defensive stance. He managed to block the combined assault of the two, but barely. A moment later his arm was cut open when his speed left him.

Tristan reached for a dagger and aimed at the nearest assassin. The man stiffened in the middle of a swing at Gawain when the knife got stuck between his ribs.

Though he was not seriously injured he was distracted enough for Gawain to lunge at his attacker and smash the man's skull with his mace. Gawain spun back to face the other one and engaged in an fierce attack.

Tristan moved closer to the two in case his brother didn't make it, but Gawain disarmed his opponent by burying his axe in his shoulder and finishing it with a blow to his head.

Gawain swayed on his feet as he looked at Tristan. "I thought I was seeing double."

"How serious are your injuries?" Tristan asked, grabbing Gawain's upper arm to steady him.

"Blood loss," Gawain answered with closed eyes. "Do me a favour?"

"What?"

"Catch me."

Tristan stumbled when his friend's body suddenly went limp. He laid him gently on the ground.

Lancelot leaped over the bodies on the ground, away from the pesky dwarf he had beheaded and towards his brothers. "Gawain!"

"Keep watch," Tristan ordered and hurriedly untied Gawain's armour in search of the wounds.

Lancelot stood over them and watched the fight end. Lamorak drove his sword into the last standing mercenary and looked up at Lancelot, his face splattered with blood. "Who is down?" he panted, running a hand over his face and grimacing as he looked at the blood on it.

"Gawain," Lancelot answered. "Get some cloths from a bedchamber, will you?"

Lamorak dashed off into the room where the slaves were still huddled together. "Cloths and water!" Lancelot heard him bark.

Seraphe sat next to Behruz's body, his eyes closed and his hand on his brother's chest, murmuring his goodbyes.

Dinadan, with a hand pressed against his profusely bleeding forehead, was helped to sit on the floor by Junius.

The only ones fighting were Arthur and what looked to be yet another assassin. Arthur's face was tensed with concentration and Lancelot quickly saw why. His opponent was an extraordinary swordfighter.

"Come on, Artorius," the assassin taunted with a strange raspy voice, "you are not living up to the tales. Is that your magical sword?"

Arthur was not a man easily provoked and merely stared at the blue-eyed man. "Briar, is it not?" he inquired.

"So she told you about us," Briar spat. "Doesn't matter. The little bitch will get what she deserves."

"As will you and your master," Arthur replied calmly. "We call it justice."

"Do continue your dreaming, Artorius," Briar sneered. "There is no justice; only power."

"The power of the law."

"Don't count on it," Briar laughed. "Connections to the right families and bribes to _get_ you connected have far more power than the law."

"There are more important powers than human ones. Your master will receive justice from them."

Briar scoffed. "Maurus is a Christian and he has yet to be struck down. Forgive me if I have no faith in your religion." He tilted his head. "Or perhaps he's just doing to Anwen what God wants. Right now."

Lancelot's nostrils flared and he could see Tristan jerk up straight at this comment. "We don't have time for this," the scout hissed.

Lamorak came back with a trembling slave woman who was carrying a jug of water. "How bad is it?" he asked, handing Tristan the ripped sheets of a bed.

"The gash across his ribs is not so bad, but the one in his side is deeper," Tristan said. "We need Dagonet for this." He crumpled the cloth into a ball and pressed it to Gawain's side. "Hold this."

Tristan carefully tore Gawain's sleeve open and revealed the cut in his forearm.

"Good man," Lamorak nodded. "Used the outside of his arm. At least we know no tendons or muscles have been cut."

Tristan grunted, quickly wrapping a bandage around Gawain's arm. The jug of water suddenly appeared under his nose. He glared at the slave, who immediately pulled it back.

"Clean," she said timidly in a thickly accented voice.

"I know that," Tristan snapped.

She made a gesture he didn't understand.

"What?"

"Sowing," she clarified. She made the gesture again and pointed at Gawain's side. "Sowing."

"I think she means stitching," Lamorak frowned.

"Yes!" the woman nodded. "Stitching. No bandage. Stitching first. Blood."

"What the hell is she saying?" Tristan hissed, his patience wearing thin.

"Blood! Die! Need stitching!" the slave said urgently.

"I think she means he'll bleed to death if we don't stitch him up," Lamorak suggested.

"Do we look like we carry a needle kit around, woman?" Tristan growled.

She pointed at herself. "I needle. I sow. I sow him."

"Why would you help us?" Lamorak asked suspiciously.

"You help us?" she asked. "You help us, I sow him."

"We're here to kill Maurus, not to help you," Tristan said coldly.

The slave scoffed. "Kill Maurus is help us."

"She does have a point there," Lancelot butted in, not taking his eyes from the resumed fight between his commander and the assassin. "Besides, I don't think Isabelle will appreciate us letting Gawain bleed to death."

"Fine, get a needle," Tristan ordered the slave woman.

She scrambled to her feet and pointed at Gawain. "Clean wound."

Tristan decided to let the fact that he was being ordered around by a slave go and soaked a rag in the jug to clean Gawain's side with.

The woman was back in an instant. She bent a needle into a curve and skilfully put a thread through it. Tristan made room for her, but kept his eyes closely on her.

However, the woman swiftly stitched the edges of the wound together and then examined the cut across Gawain's ribs. She chewed on her lip for a moment.

"You," she said, pointing at Lamorak. "Hold together."

"Like this?" Lamorak asked, pushing the edges of the cut closer.

"Yes. Hold together." She bent over with her nose close to the wound and made the stitches as tiny as she could. "Hope it holds," she mumbled.

Tristan noticed Gawain's hand twitched, indicating he would soon regain consciousness and placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Gawain?" he asked.

Gawain groaned and moved.

"Keep him still!" the slave woman snapped.

Tristan took hold of his upper arms. "Gawain, lay still," he mumbled.

Gawain moaned again and strained against Tristan's hands. He murmured something.

"A moment longer, Gawain," Tristan said.

Gawain's lips moved again.

"What's he saying?" Lamorak frowned.

Before Tristan could answer Gawain spoke louder. "Isabelle…"

Lamorak's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Isabelle, eh? Are they lovers, or something?"

"I don't know," Tristan replied curtly, his jaw tensed. "Are you done yet?" he snapped at the slave.

"Almost." She finished the last stitch and nimbly tied a little knot in the thread. "Wake him up."

"Come on, Gawain," Lamorak said loudly. "Time to wake. You can't sleep your way through a fight, lazy arse."

"Shut up, man," Gawain groaned. He opened one eye to look at the slave woman. "Who are you?"

"Oona."

"Thank you, Oona," Lamorak smiled.

Oona huffed and gestured at Gawain. "Up! Sit!"

Lamorak and Tristan helped him sit up. Oona tightly wrapped the remaining clean bandages around his body.

"I can't breathe," Gawain complained.

"Wound will open," Oona explained. "Tight."

Gawain blinked and looked at Tristan. "What is she saying?"

"The stitches aren't very secure in the wound over your ribs. It needs to be this tight."

Gawain looked around at the sound of clashing metal. "Who is fighting?"

"Arthur," Lancelot answered. "He's fighting Briar."

Gawain tried to stand, but was pushed down by Tristan.

"Arthur's winning," Lancelot said. "Briar is good, but Arthur has gained the upper hand. It'll be over in a minute."

"Have we found Isabelle yet?"

"No," Tristan said.

"So..er…" Lamorak began teasingly, "you and Isabelle?"

Gawain narrowed his eyes. "Not if we keep chatting here much longer. I think Maurus has her. Where are my weapons?"

"No weapons," Oona interjected. Gawain stared incredulously at her. "First arm," she added, pointing at Gawain's wrapped arm. "Stitching."

Gawain rolled his eyes and extended his arm to her. "Hurry up then."

* * *

**A/N: Wow, such a huge response to the last chapter. I'm flattered :D. As always, I love reading what you guys think! Anyways, lots of Tristan support I think - but, Furibondo, you will be kept in the dark for a litle while longer, about his behaviour...  
I really want there to be a difference between Tristan/Isabelle and Gawain/Isabelle. I hope that's coming across. Let me know!**


	25. A Polite Discussion

**A Polite Discussion**

Lancelot's analysis of the fight between Briar and Arthur proved accurate. Oona had just finished re-bandaging Gawain's arm when Arthur delivered the fatal blow and brought the assassin to his knees.

He finished it quickly and turned to the others in the room, sweating and panting.

"Are you hurt?" Junius Livius asked.

"No, a few cuts," Arthur answered, trying to catch his breath. "We have to hurry. Maurus could have escaped by now."

Suddenly someone bellowed from outside. "ARTORIUS!"

"Or not," Lancelot added.

Gawain scrambled to his feet, grabbing his tunic. He swatted at Tristan's hands, which tried to keep him on the ground. "He has Isabelle," he growled.

Tristan jerked his hands back as if he were stung by a bee.

Swaying dangerously, Gawain tried to pull the tunic over his head, but his wounds prevented him. With a harsh curse he threw the offending garment aside and reached for his sword.

Arthur placed a soothing hand on his knight's arm. "She'll be fine."

Lancelot picked up the tunic and helped Gawain put it on. "Leave the rest," the blonde knight panted.

"ARTORIUS! OUTSIDE NOW OR SHE'S DEAD!" the same voice from outside roared.

Gawain flew to the ruined front door, but fell to his knees before he reached it, overcome with dizziness.

"Help him," Arthur ordered and warily stepped outside.

Near the entrance to the assassins' quarters stood a tall man.

"Gods," Lancelot breathed behind him. "Isabelle."

The man held the young woman in front of him, making sure he stayed out of shot. He held a knife at her throat. Isabelle's eyes were closed and she did not struggle. There were darkening bruises on her face and blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.

"Ah," Maurus said friendly, "so nice of you to join me."

Arthur studied the tall and muscular man. His facial features would have been pleasant, had they not had an air of cruelty. From what Arthur could see in the flickering lights of the torches, he seemed to be in good shape. Despite his obvious richness he had not let himself go, as so many wealthy men did.

"Maurus," Arthur said carefully. "Let her go. You won't escape justice."

Maurus pressed the blade closer to Isabelle's throat. She gasped and opened her eyes, looking at the knights. Her eyes shot from left to right, searching for a particular face. "No," she breathed and finally began to struggle, crying out, "NO! Gawain!"

Arthur cringed at the pained voice ringing in his ears. Before he could set her mind at ease, Gawain's voice bellowed from inside the house. "Isabelle!"

Leaning on Dinadan's shoulder he stumbled outside and froze at the sight before him. He bolted forward, but was restrained by Dinadan.

Maurus hissed and pushed his knife even closer to the pulsing vein in Isabelle's neck, forcing her to stand on her toes and lean back against him. She shuddered in disgust.

He chuckled when he sensed her reaction and let his other hand slide over her hip and belly. Isabelle let out a strangled gasp and tried to scoot away from his hand, only bringing herself closer to his body. Her movements stilled and she stood rigid with revulsion, her breath hissing through her teeth.

"Tell me, Arthur," Maurus drawled, "since you know all about justice, what is the punishment for a runaway slave? The whip? Or death?"

Arthur's jaw clenched in frustration. "I'll tell you the penalty for murder on an officer. _That_ means death," he retorted. "Your accomplice Briar had his mouth full about his sense of justice too, Maurus. He's paid for his crimes nonetheless."

Maurus's lip curled up in a snarl. "Such a moral person you are, Artorius. Surely you would not deny my owner's right to this slave?"

"She is not a slave!" Gawain shouted.

"Oh, but she is. I paid a great amount of money for her. I've had to…_finish_ her training myself, of course, but there is no denying that she is a slave. I have the documents," Maurus replied calmly.

"She was illegally sold into slavery in the first place," Arthur said, just as calmly.

"You know that makes no difference. She is my slave. I can do whatever I want with her."

"Kill her and we'll do whatever we want with _you_," Tristan threatened in a low voice.

Maurus chuckled. "Kill her? Whatever gives you that idea, my good man? I would not throw away money like that." He let his hand roam over Isabelle's body again. She squirmed with repugnance.

Lancelot had to help Dinadan restrain Gawain. "You won't do her any good like this," he hissed at his fuming friend.

"I'll kill him," Gawain seethed. "I'll break his neck."

Derisive laughter made them focus on Isabelle's master again.

"I see she's got at least one of you wrapped around her little finger," he snorted. "She's good, isn't she?" The insinuation made Gawain renew his struggle.

"Enough!" Arthur barked. "What do you want?"

"Finally, negotiations. I want safe passage out of Britannia. The slave comes with me as an insurance. If I'm feeling generous, I will not punish her too badly."

"Don't listen, Arthur," Isabelle growled. "You came here to arrest him. Do it!"

Again the knife was pressed closer, breaking through her skin. She was having difficulty breathing now.

Maurus brought his mouth close to her ear, breathing, "Don't be a fool, Anwen. Fight me and I _will_ kill you, no matter how expensive you were. Cooperate, and you'll live."

"I'd rather die than spend one more moment in your presence," she snarled.

"Idle talk. You know you don't want to die," he grinned maliciously.

From the steps to the front door the knight watched in apprehension at the hushed conversation between the two.

"Tristan?" Arthur asked, keeping his eyes on Isabelle.

"I can't hit him," Tristan answered, stepping forward. "He's keeping her perfectly in front of him."

Lancelot narrowed his eyes. "What is he saying to her?"

Maurus was still talking in her ear and Isabelle's struggles grew weaker. She blinked rapidly and clenched her teeth, her face twisted into a grimace.

"Don't listen to him, Isabelle!" Gawain shouted, feeling his stomach turn at the desolation that appeared in her entire being.

Isabelle closed her eyes so she did not have to look at him.

"That's your lover, I presume?" Maurus sneered. "You couldn't wait to jump into another's bed, could you? Just like the little whore you are. Just like your sister."

A jolt of shock shot through her body.

"Oh, yes, I know about her and how she…_accommodated_ all those soldiers."

"You know nothing of my sister!" Isabelle screamed. "Don't you dare speak about her!"

"Maurus!" Arthur bellowed. "I'll make a deal with you."

"What is that, O honourable commander of a pack of Sarmatian dogs?"

"Tell me who wants me dead and I'll let you go, provided you leave Britain. If not, you die here."

Maurus burst out laughing. "You'll never find out who paid for your death. No matter what happens, that secret dies with me. Your threats won't work." He smiled coldly. "But I'll make you a counter offer. You leave now and go back to the Wall and I will tell my client that I've failed to kill you. This will do a great deal of damage to my reputation, but I'm willing to accept that. And Anwen goes with me."

"Unacceptable," Arthur said.

Anger flashed in the assassin master's eyes. "Really?" he snarled. "How unacceptable would my offer be if I include Anwen's life in it?"

A small trail of blood glistened in Isabelle's neck when the knife cut further into her skin.

"If you kill her, you'll lose your advantage," Arthur said.

"Arthur, Arthur," Maurus drawled. "Who are you trying to fool here? I know _she_ is your main concern right now. The purple colour of your knights' faces is quite the give-away. It's her life at stake, not my client's identity. Let me leave, and you have my word she lives. Push me any further and I will kill her, no matter the consequences for me. I am well aware of the hazards of my…occupation, you see. My discreteness is the reason I'm successful. If I betray my clients' identities, I am ruined."

Arthur stared at him for a long time. Then he nodded. "Very well. We will grant you safe passage from Brittannia. You have my word. Now let her go."

"You think I'm an idiot, Artorius?" Maurus scoffed. "The slave comes with me. I'll keep her alive. When I reach Gaul, perhaps I'll let her go. Perhaps."

Gawain cursed and lunged forward again. Maurus reacted by forcing Isabelle's chin up. The blood on her neck glittered black in the light of the torches.

"I'm losing my patience, Artorius!" Maurus yelled angrily. "Restrain your knights! Let me leave with her now or I'll slice her open!"

Suddenly a bow was fired with a loud twang. A moment later Maurus's body froze.

Isabelle's hands shot up to her captor's knife and she jerked the blade away from her skin, sliding down to the ground from behind his arm. Quickly she scrambled to her feet and ran for it, stumbling along the way.

Wide-eyed she turned her head back to see Maurus and tripped over her own feet. She rolled over instantly to scoot further away on her backside, staring at her fallen master.

A hand closed around her arm to help her up. Isabelle tore her gaze away from Maurus when the hand pulled her to her feet.

Tristan felt her body tense up as she looked at him. He let go of her so quickly it seemed he had burned himself on her. She blinked, staring in confusion at him.

"Isabelle," a rumbling voice said behind her.

She turned around. "Gawain," she gasped. He limped towards her with determination.

Suddenly she broke out of her daze and shot towards him. "I thought you were – you're hurt – what happened?" She fisted her hand in his tunic and refused to let go. "This is my fault. I sent them to you. I told him –"

Gawain shushed her. "It's only a scratch. I'm fine."

Isabelle kept muttering things to herself, holding his tunic in an iron grip with one hand and patting his chest with the other in search for more wounds. Gawain placed a hand on her cheek. "Do you hear me? I'm fine. Though I wouldn't mind if we could sit down for a moment."

"Oh god, of course," she rambled. "You shouldn't stand so long."

"There is a rather bossy slave girl with an unintelligible accent and a fondness for needles inside. Perhaps she can check you over?" Gawain suggested.

This finally seemed to stop Isabelle's fretting. She frowned. "Oona?"

"Come on," he chuckled and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, trying to keep in a groan of pain. They walked back to the steps.

Arthur saw she was well enough for the moment and advanced on the wounded Maurus. "Tristan, Lancelot," he said.

Lancelot followed him, but looked at the scout. "Tris?" the second-in-command repeated.

Tristan turned on the spot he'd seemed rooted to, flexing and fisting his hand, and walked towards his commander. Arthur had his eyes on Maurus, oblivious to his scout's behaviour, but Lancelot gave him a scrutinizing look.

Tristan stared back with a blank face.

From behind the bathhouse came Bors, crossing the distance to the assassin master with sturdy strides, his bow still in his hand. "You should know never to turn your back on a _Sarmatian dog_," he growled and yanked his arrow back. Maurus's body convulsed.

Arthur knelt next to his fallen enemy, followed by Lancelot and Tristan. They turned him on his back. It was too late; the man's eyes were glazing over.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Bors said, "but I could not risk it."

Arthur nodded. Had Bors shot just to injure Maurus, he could have slit Isabelle's throat. And like he himself had said: it was her life at stake, not the identity of the mysterious client.

Bitterly Arthur pushed himself to his feet again. The solution to this mystery had eluded him once again. He looked up and saw Dagonet stand in front of the door to the assassins' quarters, his sword drawn.

Curiously and warily Arthur walked closer and saw a woman stand inside, her arms crossed over her chest. Involuntarily his breath hitched. She was absolutely gorgeous.

Dagonet stepped aside.

"Amarante," Arthur deducted.

"Artorius."

He could sense Lancelot's grin as his second-in-command stood next to him. He hoped his friend would keep his brain about him and would not let himself be led by _other_ things.

"Ah, the poisonous one," Lancelot drawled, contempt lacing his voice. Arthur sighed in relief.

"I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, sir." Amarante inclined her head to Lancelot. "I do not know your name."

"Answer me this first, and perhaps I will tell you," Lancelot drawled. "How is it that we saw Isabelle going into this very building in search of you, to offer you an escape, and the next time we see her, there is a knife at her throat and that filth of a master of yours is manhandling her?"

"Isabelle?"

"Anwen," Arthur clarified.

Amarante shrugged. "Briar came into my room. Anwen and I thought he hadn't seen her, but apparently he had. He left and brought Maurus back with him."

"So you just handed her over to him?" Bors growled.

"What else could I have done? She's fine now, isn't she?"

"Fine? She is not fine!" Lancelot spat. "The gods know what that swine has said and done to her."

"Lancelot…" Arthur calmed his friend with a single word.

Amarante seemed oblivious to the glares that bore into her from all sides.

"Come with us, please," Arthur requested, but this voice left no doubt a refusal would not be accepted.

"Lead the way."

Arthur stalked back to the others, feeling a migraine coming up. What in God's name was he supposed to do with this poison mixer, not to mention the slaves waiting in the house? And then there were about fifteen bodies to take care of, plus the death of one of Junius's warriors. A visit to Eboracum was also in order, to notify the Dux what had been going on. What exactly _had _been going on? They still didn't know. Arthur knew he had to be careful, not knowing who Maurus had been connected to. The last thing he needed was a rancorous lord somewhere, plotting revenge.

"Junius," Arthur sighed. _First things first. _"What do you want to do about Behruz?"

"I can't leave him here."

"We burn him," Seraphe said from behind them. "It is not the way of our people, but he will not be buried here. With gifts to help him across, he will make it."

Arthur and Junius nodded.

"What do we do with her?" Junius asked, taking in Amarante's dainty posture.

"I have no idea," Arthur said. His gaze fell on Isabelle, who was sitting quietly on one of the steps, a piece of cloth pressed against her neck. Though she leaned against Gawain's shoulder, she seemed to be somewhere else in her mind. Arthur's skin crawled at the sight of her empty eyes fixing themselves on him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Arthur shook his head. "Don't be. It's finished now."

Her eyes unfocussed again. "Is it?" she mumbled.

* * *

**A/N: I know I'm bugging you all with so little explanation ( or none at all, actually) of Tristan's behaviour, but that's the point! Bear with me, please :) As always, I'm keeping my mouth shut as to what will happen, no matter how many questions and puppy dog eyes I get ( Yes, that's you too Priestess LOL). Though, by all means, keep them coming, because I love reading your reaction!  
Anyways, thanks for the huge response to the last chapter. You make me so happy! I'm glad the difference between G/I and T/I is coming across, because it's one of the main points of the story.  
Have a good weekend, everyone!**

**p.s. No worries, Oona ain't leaving the story.  
p.p.s. I know that was a spoiler, and I just said I wouldn't do that, but hey, just one doesn't matter.  
p.p.p.s. There really won't be any more though.  
p.p.p.p.s. I'm serious!**


	26. Finding Freedom

**Finding Freedom**

Tristan's head was pounding viciously, though he reckoned it was not nearly as bad as the headache his commander was having.

The dead mercenaries and assassins had been given a mass grave outside the estate somewhere during the night. Behruz would be sent off at sunrise, which should be any moment.

Arthur and Junius had been discussing what to do with Amarante. Personally, Tristan thought they should get rid of her. He really wasn't all that fussy as to how they should accomplish that. Trouble, that one. The dangerous kind of trouble. He knew better than to suggest this to Arthur. He wanted to spare her life.

Isabelle had come out of her trance long enough to say she held no grudge against the dark beauty and that she would've done the same. Tristan doubted it. Isabelle had not the ruthlessness Amarante possessed. She could be merciless, he knew that, but that was only self-protection. Behind the hardened exterior, the young woman was still there. Maurus had not managed to deaden that.

Unlike Amarante. Tristan didn't know whether Maurus was responsible for this creature, or someone else, but there was nothing behind the Greek woman's eyes anymore. Or at least, nothing _he_ could see. And that was what made her so dangerous, even more dangerous than he was himself.

For all his aloofness, coldness, and detachment, Tristan knew he was still capable of feeling. Why else would he have taken the trouble of luring Isabelle out of her shell after her fever? Why else would he have bothered to teach her more ways to defend herself? Why else would he enjoy watching her antics and –

Abruptly he cut himself off and rose from the stool he had settled on for a moment. His muscles protested from the night's hard work when he stretched his arms over his head. Quickly he sought a safer subject to think about. Fifteen years of fighting deadly Woads had taught him how to protect himself from hurt, in many different ways.

Putting his customary frown in place, he strode outside where everybody was assembling to pay their respects to Behruz. Tristan went to stand next to Dagonet, who asked him quietly where he'd been.

Tristan shrugged. "Thinking."

"Again? Thinking won't get you anywhere."

Surprised, Tristan glanced sideways at the larger knight. His attention was drawn away by Seraphe performing the traditional rites for Behruz. A few moments later he had convinced himself that Dagonet's comment had slipped from him.

* * *

Isabelle was frighteningly silent all day. She had found a corner to sit in, a blanket wrapped around her tightly, even though it was a humid day. The only one that had got a reaction out of her was Oona, who had called her Anwen. She'd corrected her. The other questions only received nods and shakes of the head. 

Arthur had talked to the slaves, ensuring them that if they wanted help to return to their families they would get it. Six of them went, in search of a new life or back to where they came from. Oona was among those who stayed and took on Arthur's offer to go north to Eboracum and the Wall.

Which only left the question of Amarante's fate. Arthur was reluctant to bring her back to the Wall; he knew of her agreement with Maurus and feared her loyalty might not be ended by his death. A poison mixer in a crowded fort such as his was something he had even less need of than an unknown lord crossed in his plans.

Junius had no solution either. Finally, late in the afternoon, Arthur gave up and went over to where the Greek woman was sitting. "What do _you_ want?" he asked.

Amarante blinked. "Pardon me?"

"What do you want?" Arthur repeated. "Do you want to return to Greece; do you want to go to Londinium? Tell me."

"What I want?" she frowned. "How does that have anything to do with it?"

"Surely there must be something you'd like to do, or somewhere you'd like to go."

"If you've come just to torment me…" Amarante hissed.

"No, I haven't."

"What other reason could you possibly have for asking me this? I know what Romans do with women like me. If you think you can taunt me with my wishes before you execute me, you're mistaken!" Her black eyes shone with fury.

"What? No," Arthur hurried to say. "This is not to taunt you." He heaved a weary sigh and sat next to her on the bench. "To be honest, I have no idea what to do with you. You've done me nor Junius Livius no wrong."

"Maurus has done you wrong; we're his property."

"Neither Junius nor I myself feel the need to punish people that had no say in the matter. You will not pay for your master's crimes."

"How do you know I'm not a danger to you?" she asked arrogantly.

"That I don't know. Hence my trouble deciding what to do with you," Arthur answered. "So, again, my question is, what do _you_ want?"

Amarante blinked a few times. "I don't know what I want."

Giving her a nod, Arthur said, "Then think about it, because I do not know it either." He stood and walked away.

A hoarse chuckle made Amarante look behind her. Isabelle was leaning against a pillar, still wrapped in her blanket. "He renders you speechless, doesn't he?"

"Quite," Amarante said thoughtfully. "Does he mean it, wanting to know what I want?"

"Aye," Isabelle nodded. "Why do you think I'm still alive? And I tried to kill him."

"He will give me my freedom?" Amarante asked. "I can go?"

"I think he'd appreciate it if you promised not to poison him," Isabelle shrugged. "He doesn't know how loyal you are to Maurus."

"You know it has nothing to do with loyalty. I am not Briar!" Amarante spat.

"Perhaps you should tell _him_ that."

"What good will it do me? His knights have already condemned me for handing you over to Maurus – he is more likely to listen to them."

"Arthur keeps his knights in check, even though they can get… a little fierce," Isabelle assured her, a smile creeping across her face.

"A little fierce? I've never seen a more ragged, brutal, and uncouth band of men," Amarante scoffed.

"You do us no justice," a male voice sneered. "You forgot uncivilized and cruel. Though surprisingly we are not the ones who enjoy tying you to a pole and flogging the skin off your back."

Amarante had the decency to look somewhat abashed. "Appearances may deceive," she admitted.

Lancelot curled up his lip. "Indeed." He noticed Isabelle's pale and tight face. "I'm sorry, Isabelle, that was a badly chosen comment," he apologized.

"It doesn't matter," she said, pulling the blanket even tighter around her. "Excuse me."

Lancelot cursed under his breath when Isabelle walked away.

"Just leave her be for a while," Amarante told him. "It's just bad memories."

"And pray, tell me, why should I take advice from you?" he drawled.

"You've never had any need to be alone? I can't imagine your lives being all moonlight and roses; surely you need some solitude sometimes – to ponder things."

"Most of us just drink and bed whores," Lancelot retorted cynically and left too.

* * *

Finally they were on their way back north. They'd had to wait until Gawain had recovered some. 

Amarante was with them. She'd come up to Arthur and said, "I want to go back to Greece." Though she held her chin high, her eyes were searching his face carefully for any signs that he might deny her.

Arthur had nodded. "Then I'll help you get there. Come with us to Eboracum. Junius and I will make sure you embark on a ship with a decent captain, who sails directly for Greece."

And so sixteen horses rode back over the road, one warrior less, one poison mixer and four slaves extra.

Oona was quickly placed behind Isabelle in the saddle as it turned out she did not possess any riding skills whatsoever. She tried to strike up a conversation with whichever person rode next to her. Her boldness towards the knights had subsided somewhat now that no one was in immediate danger of bleeding to death anymore. Arthur and Junius's intimidating presence also had something to do with it.

Lancelot and Lamorak made it their personal mission to have that spark return, riding next to Isabelle and teasing the foreign woman behind her.

"Infurinoying!" Oona exclaimed.

"What?" Isabelle asked bewildered.

"Infurinoying! Them!" Oona pointed at the two men, who grinned at each other. "Always like that?"

"I have no idea what infurinoying is," Isabelle chuckled. It was very hard to stay silent with the talkative Oona behind you.

"Infuriating?" Lancelot suggested helpfully.

"Oh," Isabelle said. "Yes, they're always infuriating. Well, I don't know about Lamorak, of course," she added fairly.

Oona gave the auburn-haired man a disapproving look and tossed her thick, dark brown braid over her shoulder. "He is. And _he_ too."

Isabelle laughed. Lancelot and Lamorak exchanged a triumphant look. Teasing Oona was amusing, but Isabelle's apathy made everyone uneasy. It was good to see her smile. Barely ten minutes later, however, she had withdrawn herself again, and not even Oona's jumbled questions could make her snap out of it.

At night, when they set up camp, she would sit silently next to Gawain, that same blanket wrapped around her. "I'm cold," was her answer to his inquiring question.

Gawain frowned, but said nothing and handed her a skin filled with water. The weather was still sultry; even at night. But when her fingers touched his, they were like ice.

She refused help from anybody; and though she always lay next to Gawain at night, she kept her back turned towards him, buried under her cloak and blanket.

They were on the road for three days, and had just turned west to avoid Petuaria, when Gawain realised he hadn't seen her for a while. "Arthur!" he yelled across their camp, making the other knights look up. "Where is Isabelle?"

"I don't know," his commander answered, frowning in concern.

"Bath," Oona said. "Stream, there." She pointed at the trees to the left of the camp, from where the soft babbling of water could be heard.

"How long?"

Oona shrugged. "We stop. She says bath. She leaves."

Which meant Isabelle had been gone for almost an hour. Gawain cursed and ran towards the trees. When he burst through the bushes next to the stream, he stopped in his tracks.

Isabelle was to her hips in the water, scrubbing her body furiously. Given the red and raw colour of her skin, she'd been doing it for a while.

"Isabelle, what are you doing?" Gawain asked softly.

"I have to get him off," she panted. She dove under water and resurfaced with her hands full of mud. With gritting teeth she rubbed the mud into her arms. Her long, dark hair fell into her face, wet and heavy.

"Stop it," Gawain insisted horrified.

"I can't, I can't." Her teeth chattered.

Swearing under his breath, Gawain took off his boots and cloak and waded into the stream. His breath caught in his throat; under the shadows of the trees the fast-flowing water was freezing. He now saw Isabelle's lips had a tinge of blue.

"Isabelle, stop," he said.

"I can't. I can't get rid of him. Get him off me." She began to scratch her skin with her nails. "GET HIM OFF ME!" she screamed.

Gawain jumped forward and pulled her against his chest. She struggled, sobbing to get him off her, but he held on until she relented. He stroked her hair, making soothing noises. Her shoulders shook as she cried into his shoulder.

"Help me," she whispered.

"What has he done?" Gawain asked. "Maurus, has he…?"

"No – no, he didn't, but it doesn't matter. He might as well have," she answered. "I can still feel him. He's everywhere. He still owns me." She twisted her body so she could scratch at some of the scars on her back.

Gawain grabbed her hands. "He's dead," he hissed. "He's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."

"I couldn't defeat him. I couldn't do anything against him. He was right." She took a shuddering breath. "I belong to him. I'll never be free."

"Yes, you _are_ free," Gawain growled. "Maurus is dead – you're free."

"You don't understand. What he said is true. I was never strong enough to stand up to him. I went south with Arthur to end it once and for all, but I couldn't. Bors killed him, and I'll never have the chance to free myself. I couldn't do it myself."

Gawain stared at her. "Is that what this is about? You couldn't kill him yourself, and now you think he still owns you? He's dead, Isabelle, that's all that matters. You're free now."

"Everything that I am, is what he made me," she choked. "That's what he said – it's true. I can feel him."

"It doesn't matter it wasn't you who killed him," Gawain snapped, still holding her wrists in his hands. "You don't have to do everything alone."

"I should have finished him."

"But Bors did it for you – there is nothing wrong with that. Gods, it's no folly to need help. Some things you just can't do on your own! Do you think I'd be standing here if it wasn't for Galahad? Do you think Bors would have had the opportunity to kill Maurus if it wasn't for Dagonet? Do you think – so you couldn't kill him yourself. That's what friends are for. To help you, to support you. You don't have to be alone."

"But I'm weak," she whispered.

"We all have weaknesses," Gawain answered softly. "That's when we need someone to trust. To stand beside us."

"A friend?"

"Any loved one."

Her head dropped, her hair obscuring her face. "I want to go home," she murmured. "I just want to go home."

"We'll be at the fort before long," Gawain soothed.

"No, I want my parents, my brother; I want my sister back," she sobbed. "I _just_ want to go home."

He felt his heart sink, but cleared his throat. "Then go home," he said softly.

"I can't."

"If Arthur can arrange for Amarante to return to Greece, I'm sure he can send you to Gaul," Gawain replied.

"My home is gone. It doesn't even exist ye – anymore. I can't go home. I don't have a home."

Gawain pushed her a little away from him and looked her in the eye. "Then, perhaps, one day, you could settle for me?"

Isabelle's lip trembled as she gazed up at him, searching his face for something. She said nothing; only her arms wrapped themselves around his waist and she leaned her forehead against his chest.

Gawain laid his chin on her head, grumbling, "Can we please get out of this water now? I fear I won't be able to feel my legs in a few moments." He was thrilled to hear a faint chuckle coming from her and lifted her in his arms.

Back on dry land he wrapped his cloak around her. She stopped him when he turned around to give her the opportunity to get dressed. "Do you really need Galahad?" she asked curiously.

Gawain turned back. "Aye. He lost his brother and I my cousin. We've kept each other alive."

"What was your cousin's name?"

"Gareth. He was only a month younger than I. We grew up together in Sarmatia."

She nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Gawain replied earnestly. He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.

That night, when he stretched himself out on his bedroll, Isabelle turned towards him and let herself be pulled under his cloak.

* * *

**A/N: I'm back! I know, horrible lack of updates and I can't even promise I'll do better, because my exams are coming up, so I probably won't have time to write at all.**

**Anyways, lots of thanks to everybody who reviewed! It really was a tie between Gawain- and Tristan-supporters this time, I think :D. But no hints!**

**I hope you liked this chapter. As usual, I really appreciate your thoughts and opinions, so drop me a note!**


	27. Brewing Heat

**Brewing Heat**

The journey up north to Eboracum was beginning to get tiring. It was still unbelievably warm. Not a good warm, but a muggy, pressing warmth that made the travellers' clothes stick to their bodies and sweat run down their face.

Isabelle shifted in the saddle. Her thighs were raw and sore from the friction of her clothing and saddle against her damp skin. She had braided her hair tightly, but it still hung warm in her neck. Lifting the braid she wiped her hand over her neck and fluttered her tunic. The last time she'd had some cooling down was when they had crossed the river at the village of Drax. She'd taken the opportunity to plunge herself into the water and had remounted with refreshed satisfaction – which, unfortunately, had lasted only an hour or so. That had been just before noon, and now, at the end of the day, she felt stickier and clammier than ever.

She caught Gawain's look when she glanced around her. He grinned and winked at her from where he was riding, a little ahead.

"Gawain!" Oona called out to him from behind Isabelle. "Tonight I look at wounds!"

The playful expression on the knight's face turned into a rather frightened one. "Er…there's no need, Oona. I'm fine."

Oona had been quite persistent about checking Gawain's wounds. However, her fussing did not agree with Gawain, who made an effort to keep out of her way.

"You have to be careful with this weather," Isabelle scolded him. "Those wounds could easily get infected and then where would you be?"

"I would be in the arms of a beautiful woman, who is weeping, not being able to bear seeing me in pain," Gawain replied evenly.

Isabelle snorted. "I have heard Dagonet being called many things, but a beautiful woman is not one of them."

"Are you saying you wouldn't take care of me if I was ill?" he asked indignantly.

"Not if it's your own fault, you stubborn pig!"

"There is no need for such foul words," Lancelot intervened serenely.

"Bite me!" Isabelle snapped, but immediately reconsidered when Lancelot opened his mouth to comment. "Shut up!"

"Make up your mind, woman!" With a grin he wiggled his eyebrows. "What would you like me to do with my mouth?"

Isabelle stared incredulously at him. "How about you relocate it along with the rest of you? About a mile away?"

The surrounding knights burst out laughing.

"That was uncalled for!" Lancelot huffed.

Gawain made good use of the diversion and spurred his horse, cantering along the side of the group to get away from Oona. Isabelle chuckled when he sent her an apologetic look over his shoulder.

They stopped for the night at sunset. Tristan and Dinadan had been scouting and hunting during the day and had come back with enough to feed the entire group. Within moments one of the slaves had lit a fire, while the two scouts set to skinning the animals.

Oona beckoned Gawain closer with a finger. Isabelle grinned maliciously at the skittish man. "Infections," she said in a singsong voice, "pus, poisoned blood, rotting limbs."

Gawain narrowed his eyes into glittering, dark blue slits. "You could at least try to pretend you are concerned for me."

"Why should I? You are the one risking your life," she retorted.

"Fine then. Have it your way," he sighed and proceeded to take off his armour and upper clothing, stifling a groan when his wounds prevented him. He sighed. "A little help, please?"

Isabelle smiled and got up, dusting off her breeches. Gawain let his hands dangle at his side and waited until she had undone all the buckles and laces. Isabelle carefully lifted the heavy combination of leather and metal over his head, standing on her toes to do so. She placed it on the log beside them and turned back to Gawain, who had begun unlacing his tunic.

She swallowed when she found he was looking at her. There was a glint in his eyes that made her cheeks flush, even though they were in company. She berated herself for acting silly, but still her hands trembled slightly when she slid the fabric up over his chest, her fingers touching his skin.

Gawain's breath hitched.

"Sorry," she mumbled, glancing at the straining bandages across his ribs. He was lucky the stitches under them had stayed in place this long. "I'll be more careful."

"Don't worry," he rumbled softly near her ear, making her shiver. "Cold?"

"Y – yes," she said, despite knowing her red face would betray her lie instantly. She helped him out of one sleeve and pulled the tunic over his head, before she gently let it slip down his other arm.

"Thank you," Gawain said, leaning slightly into her. Isabelle kept her eyes on his chest instead of his face. He smelt of horse, leather, sweat, and man. She felt her heart beat faster.

"You're welcome," she answered, finally looking up at him. Her blush intensified immediately.

His eyes dropped to her mouth.

A loud whistle made them both jump up. "Find another place to do that, will you?" Bors laughed. "Don't want to spoil my appetite."

Gawain sent the knight a glare that would've killed a legion, but Bors merely grinned.

"…just helping him undress to – to check the wounds," Isabelle mumbled quickly and stepped back. "Oona has to check his injuries."

Bors chuckled. "Then let her."

Gawain sat himself on a log when Oona marched over to him. Nimbly she unwrapped the cloths around his arm and peered at the wound. "Good." When Gawain moved to put the bandage back in place she stopped him. "Let it dry."

He shrugged.

Oona peeled the swathe of bandages around his ribs and side off. "Hmm…"

"What?" Gawain asked.

"Look here," she pointed. "Red."

"Where?" Isabelle asked, crouching next to Oona. "Is it infected?"

"It's red," Oona answered.

"Aye, but is it infected?"

"I don't know."

"Well, find someone who does know, if you please," Gawain butted in.

Oona stood and skimmed the camp with her eyes. "Dagonet? Sir?"

"Aye?"

"Gawain, his ribs. Not good."

"Not good," Gawain mumbled, casting his eyes heavenwards. "Holy gods."

Dagonet crossed the camp with large strides and knelt down next to Gawain, who was becoming increasingly annoyed with all the fussing and worrying.

"What say you, oh great and noble healer?" he snorted, receiving a slap on the shoulder from Isabelle for his cheek.

Dagonet looked up. "It's not infected. Yet." He looked at Oona and Isabelle. "Perhaps you could find me some barberry."

"Some what?" Isabelle asked blankly.

"Why don't you get me some water then and Oona and I will search for barberry," Dagonet suggested. "Unless you don't know what it is either?"

"No, I know," Oona affirmed.

The two got to their feet and walked away. Dagonet glanced over his shoulder and saw Isabelle run a finger over the red skin next to Gawain's wound, causing the muscles there to tense. He looked in front of him again, to Dinadan, who was roasting two hares alone. Dagonet had seen Tristan leave a few moments earlier. Like his friend he had noticed the palpable tension between Gawain and Isabelle and Dagonet suspected it was that which had made the scout walk away, even though he'd mumbled something about cleaning his hands.

Suppressing a worried sigh, he turned to Oona and said, "Why don't you look here? I'll walk a little further."

* * *

Lancelot briefly looked up as Dagonet and the perky woman slave strolled past him. He'd overheard the conversation about Gawain's injuries, but hadn't bothered to chip in. 

"Where are they going?" a familiar silky voice asked, the voice he'd come to loathe and strangely search for in the past days. He raised an eyebrow at the graceful figure that was Amarante.

"Why do you care?" he snapped.

"I simply asked a question."

"They're looking for barberry," he sighed. "To ward off any infection of Gawain's wounds."

"Barberry?" Amarante frowned. "They should use rosemary and anise. Fights the pain as well."

"Unfortunately that doesn't grow freely around here," Lancelot replied sharply. "You may have had the means for expensive herbs, but we don't."

The Greek woman stared unfazed at him. "Why do you dislike me this much?"

Slightly taken aback, Lancelot leaned against the tree whose trunk he had occupied. "Do you even have to ask? You do not possess a grain of loyalty; of compassion. You handed a woman I consider a friend over to the person that haunts her in her nightmares, not sparing your actions a second thought. I do not dislike you, Amarante, I despise you."

"Loyalty?" Amarante scoffed. "Anw – Isabelle has never been _my_ friend, Lancelot. I helped her sometimes and provided her with herbs, only because Kallias asked me to and because it meant I had a way of crossing Maurus, however pitiful it was. Unlike you, I've never had the luxury of being loyal to anyone. When I handed Isabelle over to Maurus, I was protecting myself, something I've had to do since the age of five."

"So you would sacrifice another for your own safety?"

"And how many have been sacrificed for _your_ safety, Lancelot? Or have you never killed a man in all your years as a knight?"

"I fight for Arthur."

"I fight for myself."

"I fight because I have no choice. My people's pact with Rome brings every boy under the Roman boot for fifteen years!" Lancelot hissed, his resentment rapidly taking over.

"I fight because I want to survive," Amarante retorted. "My parents sold me to a slave trader so they could feed my brothers and sisters. You may have been able to extend your loyalty to others, but I am only loyal to myself, a lesson life taught me very early."

Lancelot glared at the angry woman standing opposite him, wondering why he let her get to him.

Her eyes glittered wrathfully. "The only reason you hate me is because there is a resemblance between us."

"I am nothing like you!" he growled. "I would never have placed myself over Isabelle."

"Maybe not Isabelle. But you would do anything for the people who have your loyalty and sacrifice whatever or whoever that have not, and so would I. The only difference between us is that my loyalty is restricted to myself. That does make us rather similar and _that_ is what you hate about me. You understand what I did, and had it not been a friend with you in that room, you can't say with perfect certainty that you wouldn't have done the same."

* * *

A loud huff from across the camp made Isabelle stop examining Gawain's wounds. Lancelot had jumped to his feet and stalked out of the clearing, leaving a furious looking Amarante behind him. 

"Seems to have been a pleasant conversation," Gawain commented casually, trying to take his mind of the fact that Isabelle's fingers lingered on his abdomen.

"Hmm, I wonder what she said," Isabelle asked herself.

Gawain shrugged.

"Well, I'll look for that water now," she said and pulled her hand away from him with a soft cough. She walked over to the provisions and rummaged through them, but found all the water skins were empty, so she tucked them under her arm and made her way to the brook a little way off.

Her footsteps faltered when she noticed a familiar figure at the water side on one knee, scrubbing his hands and splashing his face and neck. Squaring her jaw, she walked on and dropped the skins next to Tristan.

The scout glanced up from under his wet fringe, but continued to wash the blood off his hands. The awkward silence that had become common filled the space between them when Isabelle sat next to him to fill the skins.

Tristan ran his wet hands through his hair, looking for coolness. He leaned his elbow on his knee and glanced at Isabelle again, who had pressed her lips tightly together. He noticed her shoulders were tense and hunched. She was still angry and affronted. And obviously determined not to let him know.

"How is Gawain?" he couldn't help asking, failing to keep a sharp edge out of his voice.

Frowning at the tone of his voice, she stilled her hands. "The gash across his ribs is in danger of infection. Dagonet and Oona have gone looking for barberry."

"Ah."

The uneasiness grew thicker when they fell silent again. Finally, he just stood and turned to walk away. Isabelle breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"Isabelle?"

Tristan's deep, accented voice startled her. She turned halfway around to be able to see him. "Aye?"

He stared at her, seemingly pondering something.

"What?"

"Watch that skin. It's floating away," he said, nodding at the brook.

Isabelle whirled back and cursed, reaching out for the skin and just managing to hold on to it by her fingertips, soaking her entire sleeve. When she turned around again, Tristan was gone.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, yes, I know I'm supposed to be studying, but it's not my fault! When I plan on writing, I can't get anything out, and when I really should be doing something else, I get bombarded with ideas and snippets of conversations that I just _have_ to write down. I've written so far in advance now that I can post another chapter. So, voila!**

**And in answer to Priestess's question about when I was going to reveal the pairing: I don't really have an answer to that. What I have in my head usually takes a lot longer to write than I plan, but, okay, just to prove I'm not totally cruel, I will say that it will take quite a few chapters before it's all over :D Then again, that may be even crueller, because you won't know a thing for a long time, but...hmm... never mind. **

**Ah, and Mandamirra10, thanks for the offer, I'm sure you'd do what it takes :D (who wouldn't!), but I can't say another word. My plotbunny is wagging her paw at me to warn me...**

**Thanks for all the good luck wishes on my exams! First one was okay, I think. Tomorrow the second one. **

**Enjoy!**


	28. Smouldering

**A/N: No, I haven't died... Well, I almost died of embarrassment when I failed an exam I was sure I would pass. And I mean _really_ failed. Painful ordeal for my pride...**

**But, there's always August! On to the resit. But first a new chapter... Really? Yeah, really... Don't let the shock kill you :P I hope you all still remember what the story is about and feel free to vent your feelings about my atrocious lack of updates. I am deeply ashamed of myself.**

**And as always a huge thank you to all my reviewers - BornWithAFever, maroonraspberry, Mandamirra10, Domlando Blonaghan, LANCELOTTRISTANBABY, Randomisation, LegolasIsMine, Priestess of the Myrmidon -who make writing such an addicting thing to do (with the occasional time lapse...). And yay to the new reviewers: Perrault, Raging Raven, and LaydeeBear, and double yay to Josje, the first fellow Dutch girl I met at fanfiction! I'm very glad you enjoy my story :)**

**Good luck to anybody who still has exams! If not, enjoy your holiday!

* * *

**

Smouldering

The barberry proved to be enough to fight off the looming infection and Gawain assured everyone he was fit enough to ride, taking offence from the doubtful looks he was given.

Arthur and Junius rode up front, constantly in deep conversation about their explanation to the Dux in Eboracum. Right behind them, Lancelot and Amarante had started a cold war, yet they kept riding in each other's vicinity to be able to exchange scathing remarks.

And _still_ it was hot and humid, which did nothing to improve everyone's already short temper. Bors's bald head shone with sweat in the sun and even Dagonet's quiet and calm disposition didn't mask his discomfort. To everybody's shock even Tristan could be heard heaving sighs every now and then.

To pass time Isabelle envisioned large, cool pools under the shadow of trees, bubbling water and fresh, cold water falls and large quantities of Celia's oils. Gawain would laugh himself into a fit if he knew she was actually longing for Celia's fussing now.

He was riding next to her. She heard him puffing and muttering things about decent Sarmatian seasons and bloody Britannia. He glowered at her when she sniggered, his hair like everybody else's sticking to his forehead and temples.

"This weather won't hold out long," he told her confidently. "We'll be soaking in rain in no time again."

"If you say so," Isabelle muttered with her eyes on the painfully bright blue sky.

Fortunately, the travellers could move much faster now they were back on the road. From somewhere south of Petuaria to the shallow waters near Drax, they'd had to cross fields and forests. Now they were heading north-east over the small road leading from Drax, which would cross the main road to Eboracum in a little while. Arthur had estimated they would reach the city tomorrow in the early afternoon.

"How much further?" Oona whined from her place behind Isabelle.

"Not much," Gawain answered. "But to the Wall it's another eighty miles."

She groaned and grumbled something in her native tongue.

"My thoughts exactly," Isabelle chuckled. She had told the knights where Oona was from, an Hibernian settlement on the western coast, which had been raided by Roman soldiers and its inhabitants sold. That was almost two years ago, when Oona had been twenty-one.

"How long today?" Oona asked.

Gawain looked at the sky. "Not too long. We can probably ride for another five miles before the sun sets."

He was right. Shortly after his estimation Arthur called out to Tristan and Dinadan to ride ahead and find a place to set up camp.

"Preferably near some water!" Lancelot added, wiping his brow.

Tristan rolled his eyes and spurred his horse into a gallop, followed by Dinadan, who winked at those who lagged behind as if saying he would make sure they would be near water.

"He's been acting a bit odd, hasn't he, lately?" Lancelot asked Bors, nodding at Tristan's retreating back.

"More so than usual, ye mean?" Bors replied dryly. They chuckled.

"Just leave him be," Dagonet interjected. "He'll snap out of it."

"Why? Has he said anything to you?" Lancelot asked.

"No, not much," Dagonet denied, leaving out the fact that this didn't mean he didn't know what was going on.

"Well, if he refuses to say anything, it seems to me Tris ain't acting odd at all," Bors snorted.

Lancelot burst out laughing, a rich, deep sound, which made Amarante look behind her. It earned her a sneer from the dark-haired knight. She flushed angrily and whipped her head back, staring straight in front of her.

* * *

At sunset Tristan and Dinadan came into view, cantering along the road towards the group. 

"There's a good spot about a mile ahead, away from the road," Dinadan told the commanders. "Next to a pond," he added.

Several moans of relief could be heard. Eagerly they followed the two scouts to their appointed camp.

At the sight of the small path leading to the pond, Isabelle groaned, "Thank you, Dinadan. I am forever grateful."

"Tristan found it actually," Dinadan admitted fairly, pointing his thumb at the man next to him.

"Oh." She looked him reluctantly in the eye. "My thanks to you then." She could barely wring it from her throat.

Tristan shrugged and walked off. Anger flared up in Isabelle's eyes for a moment.

Dinadan's eyebrows raised, almost disappearing under his mop of light brown curls. "Everything all right?"

"Sure. Perfectly fine," she answered and turned on her heels, stalking to her tethered horse. She rummaged trough her saddle bags in search of the soap she knew she still had. Armed with a comb and the soap she found she walked to the pond, gesturing at Oona to come along. They were followed by Amarante and the only other slave woman who had come north with them, a woman in her late thirties.

"But…" Oona objected, pointing at the open spot between the trees that revealed the camp and the men walking around, "...they see us."

Isabelle shrugged. "Just keep your shift on. They won't bother us." She pulled off her tunic and boots and slid out of her breeches, keeping on her long, loose shirt. With a satisfied sigh she plunged headfirst into the water.

When she came up for air, she saw Amarante was busily untying her dress. Oona still looked doubtful, as did the other slave woman.

"It's delicious," Isabelle coaxed them.

Amarante's green dress fell to the floor. She lifted her chemise up to her knees and carefully stepped into the water. Giving a tiny shudder of pleasure, she suddenly turned around, spread her arms and let herself drop backwards into the water.

"Heaven," she gasped after her head had broken through the water.

After a last anxious look at the camp Oona discarded her dress and ran into the pond. "Dilys, come on!"

"Good Lord," the older woman whimpered. "I have not undressed in the nearness of a man for ten years."

"Don't worry," Isabelle called out. "They're at least twenty paces away. I shall defend your honour if they dare come this way."

Dilys smiled, revealing the absence of a few essential teeth, but she had a friendly face. "Oh, very well." She tossed her dress aside and hurried into the water.

* * *

The knights glanced at the pond every now and then, from where gales of laughter and splashing came. 

"I wish they would hurry up," Lancelot grumbled. "I want to take a swim as well."

"I wish they would shut up," Seraphe added. "They can be heard a mile away."

"Let them," Arthur said. "They've been under a lot of tension. Besides, we're so close to the city, we won't come across any trouble."

"That still leaves the problem of them not hurrying up," Lancelot said stubbornly. He stood and walked over to the path to the pond. "Be quick leaving that pond or I will come and fetch you!" he shouted.

Several shrieks answered him.

"Stop leering!"

"Go away!"

"Patience is a virtue!"

Lancelot snorted loudly at that last comment. "Isabelle, by now you should know I am not a virtuous man."

"I have faith in you!" was her ardent reply.

"I am touched. Now get out of that pond!"

"Go away then!"

With an exasperated sigh Lancelot strolled back to the camp. A little while later the four women returned, without having bothered to dry themselves off. They had just put on their dresses over their wet shifts and Isabelle's tunic hung loose over her shirt. She held her boots in her hand, padding barefoot towards Gawain, who was leaning against a tree, his legs stretched in front of him.

"You're dripping," he commented, opening one eye.

"How astute of you." She wrung out her hair right over his head, letting trickles of water fall on his face.

Sputtering indignantly, Gawain sat up straight. He jerked on her tunic to make her stumble and pulled her into his lap. "Hmm, very nice," he said, burying his nose in her wet hair.

"Whatever you like, Gawain," she snorted, but leaned against him anyway.

"Finally!" they heard Lancelot exclaim, who immediately proceeded to head towards the pond, dropping pieces of clothing along the way.

"I don't need to see your white arse, Lance!" Bors roared.

"Aye!" Lancelot shouted back. "Unlike Vanora!"

Bors glared furiously at his brother-in-arms, who indeed had no qualms stripping down to his discussed body part, before he dove into the water. Amarante and Oona turned their backs on the pond, a slight pink tinge to their cheeks.

Gawain nodded at the two women and whispered near Isabelle's ear, "I wonder if you'll blush when I take a bath?"

Suppressing the give-away shiver that ran through her, Isabelle smirked, patting his leather-clad thigh. "Blush? Why would I? Nothing I haven't seen before under there."

"Really?" Gawain mumbled, not taking his mouth away from her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

"Aye," she breathed.

"You wouldn't mind helping me bathe then?" he inquired. "After all, I am _gravely_ wounded."

"I'd be too afraid to cause you discomfort," she replied. "Better let Dagonet help you. He knows what to do with your grave wounds."

"Very sharp," Gawain chuckled and pushed her off him. "At least help me get my armour off."

They got to their feet and Isabelle helped him take off his upper clothing. As Gawain dropped his tunic on the ground, he brought his lips close to her ear one more time. "Wouldn't do much good anyway, you helping me bathe here. We'd be in full view."

Blood rushed to her cheeks at an alarming speed. Gawain grinned and strode to the pond, where he took off his boots. Isabelle told herself she was not going to look, she wasn't, she simply wouldn't –

Swift as lightning she sat down and pretended to be extremely busy with her boots, her face flaming as flashes of a taut thigh and a sharp hipbone refused to leave her mind. She grabbed her comb and set to untangling her hair.

One by one the men wandered off to the pond and refreshed themselves. When Gawain returned, Isabelle found her blush had not quite faded yet. He picked his tunic up from the ground to put it on.

"You should leave it, so the cuts can dry," she said to hide her reaction.

"Or maybe you just like to see him half-naked!" Bors suggested loudly and cheerfully.

"Don't you think I wouldn't have asked him to take off his breeches if I wanted that?" she retorted.

"Well, only because you ask so nicely," Gawain shrugged. His hands moved to the laces that held the leather around his hips.

"Sit down, you!" she huffed. The other men roared with laughter.

Only when the uproarious mood and the comments had died down, Isabelle allowed herself to look at Gawain again. "It's still quite red," she said, her eyes sliding over the gashes.

"The stitches are irritating my skin," Gawain said, prodding a finger into his ribs. "I'll have Dag take them out. It's been a week now."

"I'll do it," Oona offered.

Gawain eyed her warily, his look clearly saying he thought she was much too eager with needles and now knives too. "I suppose, but maybe I should check with Dag first."

Dag said the stitches could be removed and handed Oona a small dagger, receiving a rather affronted look from Gawain. "Do you really think this is a good idea?" he asked.

Dagonet shrugged. "She is eager to learn."

"I am eager to have my limbs intact, thanks very much," Gawain replied.

"Oh, hush," Oona snorted. "I'm sure I can do this."

Gawain groaned. "That sounds like you've never done it before."

The Hibernian woman flushed. "Well, once."

"That's it!" Gawain decided and took the dagger from her. "Dag, you do it or I'll leave the stitches until they rot."

"Empty threat," Isabelle remarked.

Dag clearly had had enough and pushed Gawain on his back, grabbing the dagger and handling it with expertise. Within moments the stitches had been cut from Gawain's side and chest.

He fingered the cut on Gawain's forearm and frowned. "I'd rather leave them in for a few more days. The skin is stretched tight here. I don't want the wound to break open again."

"Thanks, Dag."

After the issue of the stitches was settled, the camp quieted down. Everyone was exhausted from the hot day and soon after their meal, they laid themselves on their cloaks or bedrolls to get some sleep.

* * *

Lancelot was woken by Gawain for his shift. Just because Arthur didn't expect trouble, didn't mean he wasn't on his guard. Lancelot rubbed his eyes and sat up, reaching for a skin filled with water to wake him thoroughly. 

"No problems," Gawain assured him.

"G'night."

"Night."

He watched the blonde knight run a hand through Isabelle's dark locks. Half-awake, she mumbled something and reached out to him. Gawain grabbed her hand and murmured something reassuring back, while he lay down next to her.

With a smile Lancelot looked around him to let his eyes adjust. With this type of warmth there was no need for a fire and it certainly helped to see in the darkness. Keeping his eyes unfocussed he scanned the tree line, knowing it would make him see movement faster.

There was not a sound to be heard though. His eyes skipped back to the sleeping figures around him when one of them shifted and tossed their cloak off them. Heaving a sleepy sigh Amarante sat up straight.

Lancelot rolled his eyes at the heavens. Just his luck.

"Oh," she said with obvious distaste when she saw who was on guard.

"Good evening to you too," he replied sarcastically.

She huffed, but didn't answer, smoothening her dress over her legs.

He prodded with a stick into the almost died embers of the cooking fire. Not even a tiny spark flew from them. He felt an unreasonable irritation take over, annoyed by her continued silence.

"You are completely wrong about me," he hissed.

Amarante's head shot up, immediately taking the bait. "So you wouldn't place your friends' and your own interests over that of a stranger?" she retorted. "Because that is all that I said."

"You're twisting my words."

"I am merely stating how it is. You just can't deal with it."

"You're a vile woman and you don't know the slightest thing about me."

"If you hate me so much, Lancelot, why do you seek my company?"

Lancelot ground his teeth. "I do not seek your company! You're the one not staying out of my way."

Amarante opened her mouth in indignation. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You're always in _my_ way!"

"I will not resort to childish arguments."

"Why do you find it so important to tell me that I am wrong about you?" she asked shrewdly.

"Why do you have the need to tell me that you understand me?" he rejoined.

"I don't! I don't care!"

"Good!"

"Fine!"

"I'm glad we've sorted that out."

"I'm going back to sleep."

"You do that."

"Must you always have the final word?"

"Aye."

With a frustrated growl Amarante fell back onto her bedding and turned her back on Lancelot.


	29. Eboracum

**Eboracum**

The city was vast. Isabelle strained her neck to see as much as she could. She had been sold in Rome and trained a mere twenty miles from the city, but never had she been allowed to see city life. The group rode through the cobbled streets of Eboracum at a walking pace.

The knights chuckled as they saw Isabelle – like Oona behind her – twist her body in the saddle to follow passers-by with her eyes. Loud voices and the foul smell of too many people living together mixed with the salty smell of fish and foreign spices and permeated Isabelle's head. Tradesmen coming from the docks, leading their little caravans, cursed and waved their arms at the riders when they had to stop.

Arthur lodged the slaves in an inn near the wharves, and set out with Junius Livius to find a ship for Amarante. Money wasn't an issue; after all, Maurus had been a rich man and Arthur, though having some moral objections at first, had been quickly persuaded to – as Junius put it eloquently – use the wealth of a wicked man for good purposes.

Oona and Isabelle shared a room with the two other women. With a disgusted face Oona pulled her soaked dress from her chest.

"It's too hot," Isabelle nodded, loosening the laces of her neckline.

The four women stretched themselves on the bed or the floor, waiting for Arthur to return while waving their hands for some coolness.

It was not until the late afternoon that Arthur and Junius came back. "Well, we've found a captain who's setting out for Greece," Arthur said.

"But unfortunately he won't leave for a fortnight. We'll have to stay here for a while," Junius added. "Arthur and I are going to see the Dux tomorrow and sort this whole mess out."

"Good," Bors nodded. "Can we eat now?"

The food was surprisingly good and somewhat exotic. It turned out the innkeeper's wife had a Persian grandmother. She told her guests the story of her grandparents' first meeting with enthusiasm, until her husband bellowed at her to get back to her cooking.

"Keep yer 'air on!" she yelled back, waving her ladle at him, but she scurried back into the kitchen anyway.

After enjoying their meal the group made their way back to their rooms. The four women were joined by Gawain and Dagonet to ensure that there wouldn't be any trouble that night.

Slightly offended, Isabelle frowned at the two men. "Do you think me defenceless?"

"No," Gawain said patiently, "on the contrary. However, there is a large group of men downstairs trying to drown their heads in ale. They may come and look for female company. And while you and Amarante may have no reservations about sticking a dagger between their ribs, I doubt Oona and Dilys feel the same way. Unless of course you appreciate their presence? We'd be happy to retreat."

Isabelle scowled at being outwitted. "Fine. You win."

Gawain grinned and walked into the room, spreading his bedding on the floor. "Good, because I'm getting rather used to having you near me."

That caused Oona to giggle, Amarante to roll her eyes, Dilys to look slightly disapproving, and Isabelle herself to be unable to keep a smile off her face.

"You take the bed, Dilys," she said and placed her bedroll next to Gawain.

Dagonet prepared his bed right in front of the door, making sure that anyone trying to come in would literally have to go through him. Because of the exhausting ride the room was soon filled with silence as its occupants slipped into sleep.

* * *

All precautions proved to be for nothing; nobody had disturbed their sleep. When Isabelle opened the shutters the next morning she was greeted with an already bright and dazzling sky. Just when she was about to give a good curse, her hair was blown back by a salty breeze. 

"Wind!" she squealed in delight.

Several quizzical looks were thrown her way.

"Well, it's nice, isn't it?" she sputtered.

"Why don't we get downstairs to break fast?" Gawain suggested.

"Men," Oona snorted. "Slaves to their belly."

"Women," Gawain retorted. "Slaves to their hysteria." He quickly ducked through the doorway to get away from four impressive glares.

The innkeeper's wife served them a hearty meal, which was received with loud approval by the men. Oona sent a look around the table that clearly said she considered her point proven. Gawain threw a piece of bread at her head.

After breakfast Arthur and Junius left for the military part of the city, taking Seraphe with them to represent his commander Cassius. Arthur had given the knights the day off, though with a warning.

"It'll probably be difficult enough to explain ourselves to the Dux as it is. I'd prefer not to have to plea your case before the governor on top of everything else, so please don't get arrested," he'd said.

The two male slaves said they were going to look for jobs here in the city and left right after Arthur and Junius.

"I'd love to see the city," Isabelle commented, one eye on Gawain to see if he'd take the hint.

The knight smirked knowingly. "Do you want to come to the market with me?"

"Aye, I'd love to."

"Well then, let's go," Gawain smiled, but then furrowed his brow. "Er…"

"What?"

"Do you have anything else to wear?" he asked, eyeing her appearance. "Those breeches are going to attract unwanted attention."

"There is nothing wrong with my breeches!" Isabelle said indignantly.

"I didn't say that," Gawain replied. "I am very fond of your breeches, in fact. I only meant that it is unusual for a woman to wear them and I don't want to have to deal with suspicious looks and comments constantly."

"But I don't have a dress."

"You can borrow one of mine," Amarante interjected.

Surprised, Isabelle turned towards her. "Thank you."

"Come on," she said and together they walked to their room to pick one from the saddle bags.

A little while later the two women came downstairs again, Isabelle wearing a simple, linen dress of a dark blue colour. Gawain chuckled when he saw her riding boots peep out from under the hem, instead of the soft slippers that should've accompanied the dress.

Isabelle glanced down. "She didn't have any extra slippers."

"Nobody will notice," Amarante assured her.

"Very nice." Gawain gallantly offered his arm. Isabelle placed her hand in his elbow with a smile and allowed him to lead her out of the inn.

Lancelot, still seated at the table at which they'd had breakfast, was staring at Amarante.

"What?" she inquired.

"That was nice of you," he replied.

Amarante twisted her mouth into a sneer. "Despite what you may think of me, I am not entirely demonic, Lancelot!" she spat, gathering her skirts and stalking to the stairs to get away from him.

Lancelot sat baffled. "I was just trying to be polite," he said out loud.

"Pissed the lass off _again_, Lance?" Bors grinned, thundering down the stairs. "You're losing ye touch."

"I don't know what is wrong with that woman," he huffed. "First she insists on insulting me, then she is offended when I insult her in return; now she is offended even when I'm polite."

Bors clapped his friend on the back. "If ye don't know what you've done wrong, just apologize. Saves ye a lot of trouble." He shrugged. "She probably thought you were being rude again. Why weren't you?"

"Why would I?" Lancelot retorted. "It was nice of her to offer Isabelle a dress, wasn't it? That's all I said to her."

Bors snorted. "And you said it as if you were surprised, didn't ya?"

"Well, she _did_ surprise me."

"An apology, without doubt," Bors deducted. "Trust me, I know."

"When have you become the expert?"

"Why do you think Van puts up with me? I know when to say I'm sorry – even if I don't know why."

Lancelot burst out laughing. "So that is your secret! Why have I never thought of that?"

Bors cuffed the back of his head. "Go tell the lass you're sorry."

"I am not apologizing for being polite," he protested.

"Then why did ye bother to be nice to her in the first place?"

* * *

Gawain and Isabelle took a detour to see the docks before they went to the market. The loading and unloading went on ceaselessly and the creaking and groaning of ships could be heard despite the loud voices of the sailors and merchants. It was incredibly crowded, forcing them to press against a wall more than once when two groups of traders with goods tried to pass each other at the same time. 

"There are no navy ships," Isabelle observed surprised.

"No, they're all based in Rutupiae or Portus Dubris," Gawain answered. "The fleet only sails up here when there's trouble brewing. They usually control the waters that separate us from Gaul and Hibernia, but up here it's pretty dull for them."

There were fisher boats enough, though, and a few small trade ships as well as a two larger ones.

"Petuaria is a larger port," Gawain said, stepping out the way of an angry looking man who stormed past them, "but because the city's so large there's still a lot of trade here."

They left the docks behind them and sauntered through the streets towards the market, which was – although it seemed impossible – even more crowded than the docks.

Countless women strolled past the displayed goods with baskets on their arms, squeezing fruits and haggling about the price. Loud voices praised their merchandise with vigour, trying to draw customers. A few wealthier women slowly walked by, accompanied by servants and guards.

Isabelle was sorely tempted when they walked past a stand with colourful shawls that were soft as a baby's skin, but gasped in horror when the merchant named his price. Indignantly she walked on, muttering that she had no use for it anyway. She couldn't resist the delicious smell that filled her nose a few steps later, however, and bought two cakes that dripped with honey when she took a bite.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" she asked Gawain, licking the honey off her lips. "It's heavenly."

"Tempting," he replied, but his eyes weren't fixed on the cakes.

There was that damned blush again. Gawain reached out with his hand and brushed a tiny drop of honey that was left behind on her bottom lip away with his thumb. "Very tempting."

Suddenly an unfamiliar voice rang in their ears. "Oh my dear Lord! Gawain? Is that you?"

Gawain and Isabelle looked in the direction of the voice and saw an old, matronly woman standing a few feet away, peering intensely at the knight, who frowned.

"It _is_ you, isn't it? Gawain?" she repeated.

"Aye, I'm Gawain, but I don't think –"

"Nonsense lad, of course you know me. You just haven't seen me for a while. For ten years to be exact." She pushed a greying strand of her black hair from her face.

Isabelle muffled a giggle as Gawain was being addressed as a lad.

Suddenly his eyes widened. "Good gods, Pia?"

"There you go. I'd be very upset if you didn't know who I was," the woman chuckled. "My, my, you've grown, haven't you? How old were you when I last saw you? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"About sixteen." Gawain still looked a bit baffled.

"Well, you've grown into a fine man," she judged. "But who is this? Surely you're not married – you've not finished your service, have you? Or are my wits diminished by my age?"

"No, they're not," Gawain grinned. "I am to receive my discharge at the end of winter. This is Isabelle, a...er...family friend of Arthur's. Isabelle, this is Pia, Andrivete's nurse."

"Andrivete? You mean Kay's lov–"

"Aye, mistress of Julius Septimus, who was our commander before Arthur," Gawain quickly cut her off.

Pia raised an eyebrow for a moment, but steered the conversation in another direction. "So how is Arthur? And why are you here anyway?"

"Arthur is fine," Gawain answered. "He's here to meet the Dux and brought us along, of course."

"Who's we?" Pia pried.

"Lancelot, Bors, Dagonet, and Tristan. Galahad is still at the Wall because of an injury."

"Oh, that is all?" she asked softly, her wrinkly face falling.

"Aye, I'm afraid so."

"You must tell me what happened. My mistress will kill me if I don't come back with enough information to satisfy her." She linked her arm in Gawain's. "Walk with me."

"Mistress? You're still in Andrivete's household?" he inquired, placing his hand on Isabelle's back and strolling along with Pia. "She's here?"

"Yes, she's a guest in the governor's house. Now you must tell me all you know."

"Hector, Ban, Kay, and Galeshin were discharged five years ago. But everybody else was killed."

Pia clucked her tongue. "I did not expect such sad news. But little Galahad survived? He was such a handsome boy."

"Not so little anymore," he laughed. "But he is still handsome, if I'm to believe his lover."

"Speaking of lovers," Pia continued shrewdly. "Kay returned home?"

Gawain flushed.

"You didn't think I knew, did you?" she chuckled. "Men," she said to Isabelle, "have no idea of the logistics of an affair. Who do you think covered for her when she was off with that knight again, lad? Because that boy was not known for his subtlety!"

"We didn't think anybody knew," Gawain admitted.

"Well, I'm her nurse. She may not need me in some ways anymore, but there is use for me in others. I still take care of her. She'll be glad to know he survived his service and returned home."

"He didn't quite return home," Gawain answered, exchanging a look with Isabelle.

"What d'you mean? You said he was discharged."

"He is. He decided to stay and become our blacksmith. Kay is still at the Wall."

"Oh."

"And…Andrivete is here with Julius?" he asked.

"No, she's here by herself," Pia said. "Julius died almost five years ago. He made my mistress independent by giving her an estate of her own before he died. She could not inherit anything from him, of course, because of his wife. She married a Thracian, but he died in battle fourteen months ago. Thracia has been in shambles since the barbarian attacks."

Isabelle couldn't help but be impressed. The Thracian woman had acquired wealth as Septimus's mistress and status as her husband's widow. And now she was a guest at the governor's house. Andrivete clearly knew how to navigate through society.

The old nurse stopped at a merchant selling fruit and bought some olives and grapes.

"You have to tell me where you are staying," she ordered. "My mistress will want to see Arthur."

"An inn called The Broken Mast, near the wharves. Our group is a little too large to ask for hospitality from the dux," Gawain replied. Isabelle raised an eyebrow at his smooth bending of the truth. A warning squeeze in her side told her not to comment.

"Ah, well, I should be heading back," Pia said. "It's been wonderful to see you again, lad, and an honour to make your acquaintance, lady."

"A pleasure to meet you too," Isabelle nodded.

Pia steered through the crowd, her voluptuous posture easily creating a path.

"So…" Isabelle began.

"Aye, that was unexpected," Gawain agreed. He glanced at the sky. "It's getting late. We should head back too."

They turned around and made their way back to the inn. Isabelle noticed with pleasure that Gawain's arm was still around her waist. It was such a double feeling. She knew she was not being honest with him. But if she told him about Tristan, who knew what he would do? He'd hate her lack of honesty, that she was certain of. Maybe he'd even hate _her_. Isabelle gave a soft groan. It was something she could not deal with.

"Are you not well?" Gawain asked, making Isabelle blink in shock. "You groaned," he clarified.

"Oh. No…just warm." She smiled, taking a deep breath when he smiled back. How could she ever turn away from that?

It was the right thing to do though; either that of be honest about what she had done, but it was too difficult. This knight had stood out to her from the moment she had entered the Tavern for the first time, her head full of calculating schemes and plots. Having him interested in her had been an addicting thrill, even though she had no intention of returning his affections and knew she wasn't the only one he had his eye on. But when the time came to execute her plan she had taken the opportunity to go to his room with both hands.

Then, everything had got complicated. Tristan had wormed his way into her mind, making her think he actually cared when all he had been interested in was Maurus's whereabouts and getting her into his bed. That immense mistake, which was entirely her own, still made her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

She should tell him. She should not be so deceitful. It was the right thing to do. The only right thing.

But the more she urged herself, the more she resisted. If she did it, his arm would not be around her waist anymore, his smile would not be in her direction anymore, his voice would not rumble in her ear anymore, his warmth would not be hers to bask in anymore.

Isabelle sighed and leaned a bit closer to him.

* * *

**A/N:** A bit of geography: Portus Dubris is Dover, Kent and Rutupiae is Richborough, Kent. 

So many questions in the reviews! I'll answer them in general ( well, the ones I'm willing to answer of course :D ). Mandamirra10 asked for more Tristan. He'll be along soon again. Very soon. Priestess and penscratch are asking for plot details but we all know I looooove not answering those questions. -Insert evil laughter here - And Furibondo, yes, you will find out who is behind all this. But because I am incapable of writing short stories, that'll take a while. Which is also an answer to Priestess and penscratch: all shall be revealed in time. Aren't I pompous today?

Lots and lots of thanks for your thoughts. People are really loving Lancelot and Amarante, aren't they?

I'm off to the beach. We've had great weather for four days in a row. The shock nearly killed me!

p.s. LaydeeBear: Disturbed minds are the greatest!


	30. More Mysteries

**More Mysteries**

Lancelot had been sitting on the very same chair all day, tapping his fingers on the table with angry persistence while pointedly ignoring Tristan's glares. He could not be bothered with the scout's foul temper and made an effort to pretend not to notice the incessant sharpening of yet another one of Tristan's many daggers.

He'd taken Bors's advice – he must've been suffering from a temporary loss of wit – and gone upstairs to apologize to Amarante. The bloody woman had bluntly refused to open her door and left him standing on the other side. No matter what he said, she'd just told him to go away twice and then stopped answering at all. Finally, he had just given up and gone downstairs again to sulk.

Tristan had joined him not long after. He'd only raised an eyebrow at Lancelot's declaration that all women were impossible. Lancelot wished he'd had Galahad with him. The youngest knight would've joined him in a nice, long rant against the other sex instantly, but here he was, stuck with the infuriating silence of Tristan.

Even goading the scout brought no amusement, because Lancelot was preoccupied with Amarante's antagonism towards him. Not that he hadn't tried, of course, but as at most times it was futile. Tristan's skin was simply too thick. He'd merely glanced around the empty tap-room and sent Lancelot a questioning look.

"Amarante, the harpy, is upstairs moping. Oona is harassing Dagonet about some paste that Greek hellion told her about. Alun and Dafydd, the two slaves, are looking for work and housing. Lamorak and Dinadan are somewhere in the city and Gawain and Isabelle went to the market. And Bors is outside, I think, probably scaring the innkeeper's wife."

Tristan's face had darkened. He'd grabbed a chair and leaned his elbows on the table. After staring into the distance for a while he'd taken out his whetstone and started sharpening a dagger. And he'd been doing it ever since.

Watching Tristan take care of his weapons made Lancelot marvel on how many daggers his friend kept hidden under his clothing. Then he heard a thump upstairs and scowled, his mind back on Amarante.

He sighed irritably and tapped his fingers louder. Tristan put his whetstone on the table with a loud bang and sent Lancelot another fiercely glowering look. Lancelot glared back, a little mystified as to why Tristan was in such a bad mood – but then again, when had he ever needed an excuse?

"What are you so moody about?" he asked.

"You," Tristan answered. "You annoy me. Stop tapping that table or I will pin your fingers to it." He slid his thumb along the flickering edge of his dagger.

Lancelot scoffed. "You were moping long before I started tapping."

Tristan narrowed his eyes at him, clearly insulted at the term 'moping', but said nothing. Lancelot scowled back. Their attempt to stare each other down was interrupted by amused voices outside.

"And then he – he – he had to climb out of the window and jump one story down," the male voice laughed. "Stark naked. Fortunately Andrivete threw his clothes outside, but she tossed them right into a pile of horseshite, so Kay couldn't put them on. Scared the wits out of poor Bedivere when he stormed into their room to…"

The rest of the story was lost in shrieks of female laughter. Isabelle stumbled inside, holding her stomach, followed by Gawain who seized her around the waist to prevent her from falling.

Their laughter quieted down when they saw the two sitting glumly at the table.

"Oh," Isabelle said.

"Well, aren't you two sociable today," Gawain remarked dryly.

Isabelle cleared her throat and avoided Tristan's piercing stare. "Is Amarante here?"

Lancelot's scowl intensified. "Upstairs," he snapped.

"All right," Isabelle said slowly. She looked behind her. "Coming?"

"Aye, I think I will," Gawain nodded, sending his two friends a puzzled look.

Lancelot and Tristan sat in silence while Gawain and Isabelle bounded up the stairs, once again sniggering and laughing. Tristan suddenly cursed and dropped his dagger, sealing his lips over the fleshy part under his thumb.

"Aren't you a little too tense, my friend?" Lancelot asked, getting a little worried.

Tristan sucked on the cut in his hand. "No," he then said.

Lancelot studied him for a moment, but the disturbance that had appeared a moment ago was already tucked away again behind the stone exterior. Still, Lancelot was sure that something was troubling Tristan. "You know that," he said carefully, "if you ever need any of us, we'd be glad to help."

Tristan's hand dropped into his lap. "I am fine," he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

Lancelot was about to reply when Gawain's deep, rolling laughter could be heard, followed by him calling downstairs. "Will you just come up here, Lance?"

Tristan stabbed his dagger into the table, stood, wrenched the weapon out of the wood again, and stalked outside into the little court at the back of the inn. Lancelot stared after him in bewilderment. Had something happened between him and Gawain?

"Lancelot!" Isabelle exclaimed.

"Fine!" He stomped up the stairs, glaring furiously at Isabelle and Gawain. "What?"

Gawain grabbed the scruff of his neck and pushed him into the women's room. "Fight it out – everybody's had enough of you two." He closed the door and locked it from the outside.

Amarante stood at the other end of the room, her arms folded.

"I will kill you, Gawain," Lancelot promised him through the door.

"Yeah, yeah, of course you will," he heard him answer, followed by a muffled laugh from Isabelle and footsteps walking away.

Lancelot turned back to the woman in the room. She had not moved. "I don't know where you get off!" she suddenly burst out. "You don't know me! You don't know _anything_ about me! And yet there you are, judging me without reserve. Damn it, you smug son of a bitch! How dare you?"

His jaw dropped. "I judge _you_? Have you completely lost your wits, woman? Who was the one bragging that she knew me and what I was thinking? Who was the one that was so sure about what I would or would not do?"

Amarante glared at him. "I just can't wait to get away from you!"

"Likewise!"

She marched past him and pounded her fist on the door. "Gawain! Open this door right now!"

There was no answer.

"He left," Lancelot said.

"Shut up!"

Lancelot restrained himself from exploding, but failed. "Gods! Why are you so angry with me?" he shouted. "Aye, I _did_ judge you earlier. I _did_ sound surprised. I _was_ surprised. You said you were not entirely demonic, but you had yet to show me that at that point!"

Amarante closed her mouth, though her black eyes were still glittering with aggravation. "You don't know a thing about me," she repeated.

Lancelot threw his hands in the air. "Hadn't we already established that? A mere moment ago? I don't know anything about you and you certainly don't know anything about me! There. Are you happy now?"

She made an effort not to retaliate. Swallowing her initial, heated reply, she said, "Very well. I agree."

_Praise the gods! _Lancelot made sure he didn't say that out loud. He had a feeling his sarcasm would not be appreciated. "Good," he said instead. "I think we have accomplished a truce then. We don't know anything about each other. And – if you agree with me of course," he continued with a mockingly courteous inclination of his head, "I suppose we can act civil towards each other and avoid being locked up again."

"Yes," Amarante agreed, painfully polite, "I suppose that is a good idea."

"Right, that's settled then." Lancelot turned around, examining the door. "Now we just need to get out of here."

* * *

Guffawing and sniggering, Isabelle followed Gawain downstairs, where they found the table deserted, but the innkeeper had appeared behind the bar. Gawain bought them a drink and sat down at the table. They listened carefully for any sounds that might indicate that a murder was being committed upstairs, but nothing too violent seemed to be going on. 

One by one the other members of the group wandered back in. Other guests filed into the tap-room as well and soon the innkeeper and his wife were busy serving drinks and meals.

Tristan entered last.

"You all right?" Gawain asked.

Tristan nodded and motioned at the innkeeper for a drink.

Isabelle kept her eyes averted, fidgeting with her dress. She chided herself for acting childish and suddenly lifted her head, looking Tristan straight in the eye.

The scout's hand tightened around his mug when he stared back, but no expression was perceptible on his face. Before anyone could notice, Arthur, Junius Livius, and Seraphe walked through the door, all looking exceptionally flustered and wound up.

"How'd it go?" Bors asked. "Convinced the old cocker of our cause?"

"We need to speak in private," Arthur replied tensely. A crease between his eyebrows deepened. "Where is Lancelot?"

"Er…" Isabelle and Gawain began simultaneously.

Gawain cleared his throat. "He's upstairs."

"With Amarante," Isabelle added.

"For the love of God," Arthur sighed exasperated.

"No, not like that…" Isabelle hurried to say.

"Ye sure about that, lass?" Bors enquired with a grin.

"They've probably killed each other by now," Gawain said. "We put them together in a room to sort out their differences," he explained.

Arthur stared at him.

"They were getting on everybody's nerves!" he defended himself.

"Just… Upstairs, all of you," Arthur ordered.

"Is there a problem?" Dinadan asked when everyone was upstairs.

"Yes," Junius said grimly. "You could say that."

Arthur knocked on the door. "Lancelot, are you all right in there?"

"Aye, fine."

Arthur unlocked and opened the door. Amarante was sitting on the bed while Lancelot leaned against the wall.

Bors chuckled. "Are you friends now?"

Amarante glared at him. "We've sorted a few things out," she answered stiffly.

Bors burst out laughing and clapped Gawain on the back in approval while Arthur ushered everyone inside. "Tristan, make sure we're not overheard."

Tristan nodded and leaned against the doorpost, watching the landing and the stairs.

"What's going on?" Lancelot frowned.

"The point is, we don't know!" Junius burst out frustrated.

"We assumed the dux was informed about the murders, which he was," Arthur continued. "We told him we'd found out it were assassins who were behind it and that we'd managed to catch one of them who gave us the information we needed. Fortunately we didn't tell him anything more about you, Isabelle, because something was off."

"Why? What do you mean?" Isabelle asked.

"After we explained what we'd done," Junius said, "the dux was silent. And before we knew it, he was yelling at us for leaving our post and acting as vigilantes. He said we had no right to go behind our superiors' backs. We could not get one bloody word in. He _reprimanded_ us and gave a direct command to return to the Wall."

"You were reprimanded?" Lancelot asked disbelievingly. "What about the fact that you'd just solved dozens of murders for him?"

"He didn't seem particularly interested in that," Arthur said with a tense jaw.

"Do you think he knows more?" Gawain asked darkly.

"Do you have any other explanation?" Seraphe rejoined.

Gawain shook his head. "No, but why would the commander of all the military forces in Britain want his own men dead?"

The room fell silent.

Isabelle cleared her throat. "Sometimes…there are things you know about, but don't agree with. That doesn't mean you can always stop them."

Several heads turned towards her.

"Are you suggesting he was overruled?" Junius demanded.

"There are men with higher ranks or positions than the Dux of Britannia, are there not?"

"Of course," Arthur nodded. "But not here in Britannia."

"You do realise what you're saying here, don't you Arthur?" Junius said. "That someone in Rome is plotting the death of Roman soldiers."

"Yes, I realise that," Arthur replied. "I just don't know who. Or why."

"Well, what can we do?" Lancelot asked.

"Nothing," Arthur said gloomily. "We were given a direct order to return to our posts. Immediately."

"Seraphe did manage to scrape some benefit out of it all," Junius said. "He asked about Maurus's possessions. His slaves are to pass into our possession, the money from their sell is ours. So we'll go to the magistrate tomorrow morning to free you."

"You know none of us see you as a slave," Arthur added, looking at Isabelle, "but having a legal status as a freedwoman will protect you."

"Is that any use?" Gawain frowned. "She's registered as Anwen, not as Isabelle. The people at the fort think she is a Roman citizen. Having her known as a freedwoman will harm her position."

"I'm not suggesting we let it be known at the fort that she is a freedwoman," Arthur explained. "I only meant that, should she choose to leave, her status will protect her. I don't intend to change her identity at the fort."

"Thank you," Isabelle said softly.

"What about the estate?" Amarante inquired. "What's going to happen to it?"

"I think the dux has every intention of confiscating it," Junius replied cynically. "Maurus's relatives will not want to be associated with a bastard, so they'll let him. Of course the dux doesn't know we have…er… extricated some of the estate's wealth. There should be enough to give everybody a fresh start."

Dinadan grinned at his commander. "You know, Junius, you are not such a mean son of a whore as you let everybody think."

Junius narrowed his eyes at the cheeky scout. "Extra patrols for a fortnight for you," he barked.

Dinadan scowled.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Amarante, we'll have to arrange something for you. We won't be able to stay until you embark. We might be able to stall our departure for another day, but not much longer."

"Arthur," Gawain interrupted him. "Would you be able to stay if you received an invitation from the governor?"

Arthur blinked in bewilderment at the conspiratorial grin on Gawain's face. "Why would the governor invite me? He doesn't even know I'm here, let alone care about my existence."

"The governor may not invite you on his own accord, but he could be persuaded by someone else. In fact, I think an invitation is on its way right now."

"What in the name of the gods are you talking about, man?" Lancelot exclaimed exasperatedly.

Gawain's grin widened. "I ran into an old friend at the market today."

"Who?" Bors demanded.

"Pia."

"Pia?" Arthur repeated.

"Holy gods!" Lancelot laughed. "Pia, Andrivete's nurse?"

"Andrivete is a guest at the governor's villa," Gawain nodded. "All by herself. Julius died five years ago. She married. He got killed in Thracia. So Andrivete is now a wealthy widow, who has just been informed of Kay's whereabouts by her nurse. I'm surprised the invitation is not here already."

Arthur looked as if he were about to start wheezing. The others knights were laughing loudly and even Tristan looked incredulously but amused at Gawain while the men from the other forts looked confused.

"You've had a busy day, haven't you?" Dagonet asked Gawain dryly, trying to get his grin back under control.

Gawain winked at Isabelle. "You do what you can. So, will it work?"

Arthur nodded slowly. "Somewhat. It'll buy us some time to prepare Amarante's journey, but not much. We can't disobey a direct order."

"Someone's coming upstairs," Tristan said. "It's the innkeeper's wife."

The dark-skinned woman stopped in front of the scout. "I have a message for Artorius Castus," she announced. "It was delivered just a moment ago." She looked a bit confused when the occupants of the room began to snigger.

"Thank you," Arthur said and took the piece of parchment from her, giving her a coin for her trouble.

"I wonder who it's from," Lancelot commented innocently.

Arthur broke the seal and smiled. "It is from Andrivete. I'm invited to supper tomorrow night."

"Wonderful," Junius grinned. "Well, I'm off to bed. We've got a lot to do tomorrow. Goodnight!"

"Goodnight."

* * *

**A/N: Hello again! I hope you all had a good weekend. I had a wedding and a beach party. Argh, the headache I had yesterday... Painful, very painful.  
Anyways, thanks for the reviews! Mandamirra10 ( ugh, dark age cities, that would not be pleasant at all...), la argentinita (that old lover of Kay has not left the story yet :D), LaydeeBear ( well, I have to say that your friend's description is not entirely without truth...and don't you love Gawain for it ;) ), Randomisation ( the mind is a strange thing :D), Priestess of the Myrmidon (glad to hear that and yes, the summer means more updates :) ), Furibondo ( you assume correctly ;) ), and SohoNora (new reviewer yay! Glad you like it!)**

**Oh yeah, LaydeeBear asked me where I got my historical info. It's this lovely site called google ;). I just type in what I want to find out and wham! thousands of sites. And then it's just picking out the details I need. And for the additional characters such as Kay, I'm keeping him close to the original Welsh stories, so without being a complete shithead. Just hot-tempered, big, and loud :)**

**Adios!**


	31. Saying Goodbye

**A/N: A very short note today. I'm going to stay with my great-aunt in France for a week (yay!) but I wanted to have this posted before I left, which is about now. Thank you, thank you for all the great reviews and I hope you'll like this chapter!

* * *

**

Saying Goodbye

Arthur indeed had a busy day. He spent the entire morning at the magistrate's office to first get Maurus's slaves transferred into his possession and second to free them. The magistrate, fortunately, was susceptible to compliments and bribes. Even more fortunately Arthur had brought Lancelot with him, so he could put his charms to use. Once the magistrate agreed to make Arthur the owner – a few subtle comments about having to call on the dux if he would not were useful – the worst was over. A written declaration of their freedom and a note in the magistrate's administration solved it all.

After a quick meal at the inn Arthur and Junius discussed Amarante's best options. She would have to spend thirteen days in an unfamiliar city on her own, not a good prospect.

"We can't let her stay on her own," Arthur said. "One of us will have to stay here."

"Make that two of us," Junius replied. "Eighty miles is a long road to travel alone."

Arthur frowned. "I can't spare two men, and neither can you."

"We'll both leave one man here; that should be enough," Junius suggested. "Everyone else is settled?"

"Yes, Alun and Dafydd have found jobs in the docks. They still need to find housing, but with the money from the estate they'll have plenty of time to do so. Oona, Dilys, and Isabelle will travel to the fort with us. Their best option is to go where they already have acquaintances. It's safer for them."

Junius nodded and grinned. "Well, let's see if there's anyone who wants to stay with Amarante. I'm not putting my money on Lancelot."

It earned him a snort from Arthur. "I'm not so sure about that actually. He's always loved a challenge."

"A challenge is one thing, but attempting the impossible?" Junius replied dryly.

"Maybe she'll teach him something."

* * *

Dagonet volunteered to stay with Amarante, along with Lamorak. After Arthur had left for his supper with Andrivete, the others packed their bags. 

Lancelot didn't take long to finish and sauntered downstairs to the little court at the back and into the stables.

The stable boy, a son of the innkeeper, jumped down from the haystack where he'd been dozing on. "Sir," he said groggily. "Can I help you?"

"No, I just came to check on my horse. Go back to your...er...chores."

The boy flushed guiltily and hurried outside.

"How are you, my friend?" Lancelot mumbled, sliding his hand over the smooth, black neck of his stallion. "Has the boy been treating you well?"

He received a soft snort as answer.

"I see. Anxious to be out there again, are you," Lancelot smiled. "Don't worry. Tomorrow we leave."

"You didn't want to stay here with me," a voice said behind him. He whipped around. She had wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against the door post.

"Amarante," he greeted her politely.

"Lancelot," she mimicked him.

"I wouldn't have minded if I had to stay here," he said politely. "But I knew Dagonet wanted to talk to you about what you know about healing."

"Ah," she said. Suddenly she flipped her black braid over her shoulder, looking more defiant. "I did not mean that I wanted you to stay. I only –"

"Of course," Lancelot agreed quickly. "I didn't think otherwise."

"Good."

"Yeah."

In the silence that followed only the horses shifting in their stables made any sound. Two boys were shouting outside.

"So," Amarante began, "your horse seems very important to you."

"Of course. He has seen more than I have. He protects me," Lancelot answered.

Seeing the puzzled frown on her face, he explained, "There is a Sarmatian legend that says that fallen knights return as great horses. Targitai is a great horse, so who knows who he once was."

Amarante smiled and took a step closer. "He does have a look in his eyes that says he knows more than you think, doesn't he?"

"He does." Lancelot paused and added, "His father came with me from Sarmatia. He was my father's horse."

"Fitting."

"I suppose it is."

"I don't know anything about Sarmatia," she said, almost absent-mindedly.

Lancelot chuckled. "I don't know anything about Greece."

She blinked and regained her composure. "We don't know much, do we?"

Surprised, he raised an eyebrow. "No, we don't."

They fell silent again. When not even the the sounds that surrounded them could mask the uncomfortableness, Amarante cleared her throat. "I should be going back. Supper is being served and Junius wanted to talk to me."

"Aye," Lancelot nodded. "I'll be in soon too. I just have to –"

"Talk to your friend," she finished for him.

"Yes, I do," he said, feeling an appreciative grin tugging at his lips.

Amarante turned around with a slight smile and stepped outside. Lancelot watched her go.

Targitai gave a snort and pushed his nose against his master's shoulder.

"What do you know of it, eh?" Lancelot grumbled.

* * *

The extra day that Andrivete's invitation had brought had been used by Arthur and Junius to set up arrangements for Amarante and Junius discussed them with her over supper while the others listened. 

Bors elbowed Lancelot in the side. "You're quiet today."

Lancelot shrugged and looked away, catching Isabelle's eyes. She winked at him while taking a sip from her mug, before leaning over to Gawain when he said something to her. She smiled and nodded.

Lancelot had noticed they'd grown close over the past few weeks. Well, it was hard not to notice. He figured it wouldn't take them long to engage in some sort of affair, if they hadn't already. But still, Lancelot couldn't rid himself of the feeling that something was off. As he glanced around the table it hit him why.

To Isabelle's left, on the opposite side of the table, sat Tristan, seemingly engrossed in his food, but his eyes gleamed through the thick, black fringe. They were fixed unwaveringly on Isabelle. Not surprisingly he hid it well, but after that afternoon's display at the table Lancelot had kept an eye on him.

And thus had noticed the effort Isabelle put in not looking the scout in the eye. She never sat next to him, talked to him, or looked at him. It was odd, Lancelot pondered, since they had seemed to get along quite well earlier on. Ever since they had set out on this journey the two had ignored each other – no, that was not completely true. They'd had somewhat of a fall out right before the knights had left to hunt the band of Saxons. Clearly something had happened.

Lancelot chewed on his lip, becoming increasingly curious. He looked at Tristan and then Isabelle and narrowed his eyes. The scout's stare was intense, almost angry. Lancelot wondered if Isabelle had offended him in some way.

When she caught Tristan's look, he changed his mind. Isabelle's jaw tensed and she averted her eyes immediately. Apparently she was angry too. It reeked of a fight, Lancelot decided. But what could they have been arguing about? His eyes skipped from one to the other. Asking Tristan would be pointless – he'd probably end up with a black eye and three bruised ribs. He could try to pry the information from Isabelle, but the closed expression on her face made him doubt he would have any success.

Once more Lancelot recalled the scene at the table that afternoon. Tristan's unusual loss of temper. At the sound of Gawain's voice. Gawain who'd been upstairs at the time. With Isabelle.

He gasped. Could it be? Slowly a grin formed on his face as he glanced at the dark scout. Tristan was interested in Isabelle. Oh, the possibilities! Already plotting he leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smirk and glanced around the table again.

Dagonet was staring at him with a pointed look. Lancelot raised an eyebrow at him, which raised even higher when Dag slowly shook his head in a warning manner. Dagonet knew what was going on as well? He shook his head again as if to say that Lancelot had to stay out of it. What was going on?

Amarante's voice brought him out of his ponderings. He decided to ask Dag about his behaviour later. For now he tuned in on what the Greek woman was saying, his joyful mood vanishing quickly.

* * *

Arthur returned very late, but found everyone still up. "And…?" it came from every mouth. 

He grinned. "She hasn't changed one bit. Did you manage to arrange everything for Amarante?"

"Yes, no problem," Junius answered. He noticed several people around him yawn. "Let's retire for the night. We leave at dawn."

The next morning, when the knights saddled their horses in the chilly moments before daybreak, Amarante stood in the doorway. Her guards, Dagonet and Lamorak, walked to and fro between their comrades to say goodbye.

She watched them. Dagonet was talking to Bors, the big, loud one. Isabelle walked past them with a saddlebag in her hand, grinning as she said something to them. She received a slap on her backside from Bors in return. Amarante chuckled when Isabelle threw the man an indignant look and marched off. She was almost ten years older than the girl and in many ways it showed. Isabelle still had some of that delicious youthfulness around her. It didn't show always – in fact, Amarante had seen it rarely when they'd both been at Maurus's estate, but here, around these strange and foreign men it was much closer to the surface.

Amarante smiled as the tawny-haired knight Gawain helped Isabelle saddling her horse. They were together very often and he barely took his eyes off her. Neither did Isabelle, Amarante had noticed. There was an easy comfortableness between them that made her slightly jealous. It was something she had never experienced.

Least of all with the dark, curly-haired knight that had rapidly become the bane of her existence. Lancelot. Cocky, arrogant, and with a thorough dislike of her. She looked in another direction when said knight stopped talking to his horse and glanced her way.

Her eyes landed on the two commanders. Junius, a lean man with a gruff face – enhanced by his nose that had clearly been broken more than once in the past – and a brusque manner that was withstood by his lenient dealing with the slaves. Arthur remained somewhat of a mystery to her. He had been nothing but kind to her, but judging by the way his men followed him he was also a fierce leader.

She watched as his scout marched up to him and spoke to him in that quiet, succinct manner of his. He hadn't said a word to her and obviously didn't trust her. She couldn't blame him.

Tristan was joined by the other scout, Dinadan, almost his opposite. Dinadan loved to joke around and was much more approachable with his large, brown eyes and lighter brown curls. As was his companion Lamorak, who would be staying with her.

Seraphe was more like Tristan. Terse, composed, and suspicious.

She blinked when the two commanders walked towards her to say goodbye. "Amarante," Arthur began. "Good luck. Dagonet and Lamorak will keep you safe."

"Thank you, Arthur, Junius," she said, "for everything you've done for me."

"Don't mention it," Junius replied. He shook her hand.

Isabelle walked over to them. "Goodbye," she said.

"Goodbye, Isabelle. Fare well."

Isabelle smiled. "I will and I hope you will too."

"Thank you."

Lamorak and Dagonet went to stand beside her, followed by the other knights who came to say goodbye to their brothers-in-arms. She said goodbye to them as well, but hesitated when she found Lancelot suddenly in front of her.

Quickly she stuck out her hand. "Goodbye."

Her fingers were enveloped in his larger hand as he shook her hand slowly. "Goodbye, Amarante." His grip became less firm, but still his hand lingered in hers. "Fare well."

"You too."

He nodded once and turned away, his hand slipping from her grasp. Amarante clenched her fist.

The group mounted and with a last wave they rode away from the inn.

* * *

Lancelot was fidgeting with his reins. His horse snorted loudly and tossed his head in disapproval, but he didn't seem to notice. Isabelle quirked an eyebrow at his strange behaviour. 

They were riding at an gallingly slow pace through the streets despite the early hour and it seemed to aggravate Lancelot, though Isabelle could not understand why. He rode in front of her, constantly shifting in the saddle. Now, Lancelot was an energetic man, but nervousness was not a character trait he possessed.

Slowly but surely they approached the gate and his fidgeting and shifting became worse. Isabelle opened her mouth to say something, but Lancelot beat her to it. "Arthur!" he called out. "I have to go back. I've forgotten something."

Arthur, who was further up front, twisted in the saddle. "What?" he asked disbelievingly. "We have to leave now."

"One moment," Lancelot insisted. "I'll be right back." He didn't wait for an answer and turned his horse, heading back to the inn at a dangerously fast canter, ignoring the indignant shouts from passers-by.

"Lancelot!" Arthur called after him.

"What is he doing?" Isabelle asked.

"I don't know," Gawain answered.

They waited near the gates. And indeed, Lancelot returned shortly, seemingly more relaxed.

"What do you think you're doing?" Arthur bellowed at him.

"I'd forgotten something," his second-in-command mumbled, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"Yes, you already said that," Arthur snapped, but got no more reaction out of Lancelot. He waved his hand at the others to follow him and so they made it out of the city and back on the road.

Isabelle spurred her horse and rode next to Lancelot. "Care to tell me what that is all about?" she inquired.

Lancelot cast her a sideway glance. "Do _you_ care to tell me what is going on?" he retorted.

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"What happened between you and Tristan?"

"Excuse me?" she huffed.

"Why have you two stopped talking to each other?"

"That is none of your business!" Her cheeks flushed.

"Exactly," he smiled, beginning to get a more and more clear idea about what had caused the rift between the two.

"Fine," she snapped. "Don't tell." She let her horse fall back, ignoring a question from Oona, who was behind her in the saddle.

Lancelot smirked. Unfortunately he hadn't had time to talk to Dagonet, but he would be with them again soon. And then he would ask. In the meantime he had plenty to keep his mind occupied. Amarante's surprised look as he had stormed back into the inn.

"I've forgotten something," he'd said.

"What?" she'd asked, glancing around the tap-room as if it would be right there.

He grinned, reliving what had happened next. The feel of black hair running through his fingers and a soft mouth moulding to his own.

He had not asked her to come with him and she had not offered. Though he was reluctant to let her go, he knew she needed to go home. He would not ask her to give that up, not after having spent over fourteen years on this island himself.

"Fare well," he'd murmured, taking a last kiss from her.

"Goodbye," she'd whispered back.


	32. Unexpected Encounter

**A/N: I'm home again! France was mostly...hot, but I had a great time, despite the fact that my aunt lives in a town with only 250 inhabitants and made me eat escargots (delicacy, my arse!). I've been to Toulouse and Tarbes - absolutely beautiful and absolutely a steaming hot oven. And the rest of my time I spent taking siestas, admiring the landscape ( mountains really do it for a Dutch girl ;) and playing cards with my ancient aunt ( my mother's aunt actually) and her equally ancient friends :) Very relaxing.**

**On to the important stuff, Amarante has left. I felt it was important for her to go back to Greece, so I had no choice but to ship her off. But she has left her imprint on everyone's favourite bounder, though the question remains: will he let it show? More questions about everybody finding out about Tristan and Isabelle - Gawain in particular - and so on you know I won't answer :D. But, Furibondo, you were right to be patient: Andrivete has not left the story yet!**

Oh yeah, and I think a little explaining is in order as to why no one is catching on to the incredibly amiable atmosphere between Isabelle and Tristan (cough). I don't think I explained it well enough in the story. In my head, no one really knew what had been going on between them in the first place, because Tristan is not the type to shout it from the roofs and Isabelle was confused.  
**Dagonet found out eventually because he was there the morning after, but everyone else only witnessed their little strife in the fortress hall where Tristan told her to stop running towards people who wanted to kill her. (chapter 20). And because all the knights know that Tristan usually voices his opinion in less than chivalrous ways, they assume that this is why those two are not so friendly anymore.  
Until Lancelot picked up on something more, of course...**

**Anyways, I hope I've explained the delay a little. Enjoy the chapter and drop me a note!**

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* * *

**

**Unexpected Encounter**

Isabelle was stewing because of Lancelot's behaviour. How dare he poke his nose into her business! Not because he was genuinely concerned, but because she'd asked him something he didn't want to answer. Bastard!

It had of course nothing to do with the fact, she told herself, that he'd been closer to the truth than she liked and that this was why she was so angry. Not at all! After a last look full of daggers aimed at his back, she turned her attention to Oona, who was trying to get her attention.

"What did you say?"

"How long?" Oona asked. "Until wall?"

"Three days probably," she answered. "We can cover quite a distance at this pace."

"I know," Oona grumbled. "My backside knows too."

Isabelle chuckled. "A wise man once told me that your backside will turn into tough leather eventually."

"A wise man, eh?" Gawain inquired with an innocent expression. "Do I know this man?"

"Stop fishing for compliments," she told him.

"Fishing?" he repeated in mock outrage. "I don't need to fish for compliments. Women give them freely. Though I have never been called wise before."

"No wonder," Oona commented darkly.

"Watch it," he threatened. She made a face at him.

They spent a while exchanging digs and jokes, until Arthur and Junius held up their hand at the front of the group. Isabelle stood in her stirrups to see what was going on. A little while ahead on the road was a slowly travelling caravan. Two wagons and a carriage were accompanied by a small group of armed men, probably mercenaries.

"I cannot believe it," she heard Arthur sigh.

"Put your best smile on, Arthur. You have a new guest, methinks," Junius chortled.

"What's going on?" Isabelle hissed. At that moment Arthur motioned them to start moving again and they cantered up to the caravan.

"Good day, Andrivete," Arthur said with a dry hint in his voice as he reached the carriage.

A female voice called out and the caravan came to a halt. Though the curtain that sheltered the inside of the carriage came a slender hand, which was followed by the rest of the woman.

Isabelle leaned forward. So this was the famous Andrivete. When the Thracian woman appeared, Isabelle blinked. Not what she expected. She had imagined her as a delicate, but decadent Roman-like woman with a shrewd look in her eyes and a scheming mind.

Certainly not had she expected this tall, robust woman. Andrivete's russet hair was not covered by a veil and was held out of her face by a simple hairdo. She had strong facial features and slightly slanted eyes. The shrewd look Isabelle had expected was present though.

"Arthur!" Andrivete exclaimed. "What a surprise!"

"Hardly," Arthur snorted.

The older woman laughed. "Indeed."

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I'm on my way to visit you, of course. And my old home," she answered.

Next to Isabelle Gawain mumbled, "Sure she is."

Isabelle looked at him. 'Kay' he mouthed. She raised an eyebrow and focussed on the woman again. From the lines in Andrivete's face Isabelle estimated she was of Kay's age, in her mid-thirties.

"What did the governor think of you leaving his hospitality so rushed?" Arthur asked.

"He has other things to worry about than the whims of a woman," she answered airily.

"Well, you're welcome to join us on our journey north," Arthur replied courteously. "That goes without saying."

"Thank you." Andrivete turned around and after a friendly nod to the knights climbed back in her carriage.

Gawain cursed. "We'll go so much slower now. Not to mention the fact that Kay will be after Arthur's head."

"Doesn't he want to see Andrivete?" Isabelle asked confused.

Gawain gave her a meaningful look. "Oh yes, I imagine he'll be thrilled to see the woman he loved and asked to stay with him, but who left him behind for her secure life as Septimus's mistress."

Isabelle grimaced. "I see. I don't think I want to be present when they see each other for the first time again."

"Having been on the wrong side of Kay's temper a few times myself, I agree," Gawain said with a small shudder.

* * *

Gawain had been right. Now that they had to accompany Andrivete's caravan they travelled much slower. The whole journey up north was rather dull and uneventful, which led Isabelle to bombard Gawain with questions about Andrivete. 

"So they haven't seen each other for ten years?"

Gawain nodded. "They'd been lovers for almost six years when Julius Septimus was discharged. And then she left."

"Just like that?"

"Aye, just like that."

"Kay will kill her."

"That is likely," Gawain agreed. "I wonder why she wants to come back."

"Make amends?"

"If she does, I'm not so sure Kay will cooperate. He has his pride."

"Aye, and copious amounts of it too."

* * *

At night Andrivete kept mostly to herself, letting her maids fuss over her while she sat near her fire with a distant look in her eyes. She seemed to be worrying over something. Something more serious than the prospect of seeing an old lover. It made Isabelle wonder if Kay was the real reason – or the only reason - for her journey north. Given the careful looks from the others she knew she was not the only one with doubts. 

Andrivete's slaves stayed out of the knights' way, her maids in particular, scurrying along between the carriage and their mistress's fire. Isabelle curled her lip at the sight of their ready servitude. It was an unpleasant reminder of her days with Maurus.

Isabelle sighed and stood, stretching her arms over her head. That part of her life was over and she should remember that, she told herself. From across the fire Gawain smiled at her. She smiled back. She was on her way to a new life now.

She stepped away from the fire and laid herself down on her cloak, waiting. When she felt a familiar hand slide over her arm she smiled and murmured, "Goodnight."

"'Night," Gawain mumbled back and pulled her against his chest.

Isabelle closed her eyes, enjoying his nearness, and tried to ignore the pang of guilt she felt for having gone through another day without telling him about Tristan. This could not last forever. He was bound to find out soon, especially now that Lancelot knew.

Not yet, she thought, not yet. She wriggled a little closer to him and pushed that unsettling notion out of her mind.

The next morning the caravan resumed their way north. Instead of three days it took them five to reach Concangis, from where it was only ten miles to home. The only eventful thing that happened was Tristan's horse stepping in a rabbit hole. Fortunately the ankle was only slightly swollen, but the animal could not be ridden for a while. Tristan had to borrow a horse from Andrivete, which took his foul mood to new levels.

After leaving Concangis behind, Arthur and Junius became more careful.

"Woads like to attack here," Arthur explained to Isabelle. "Be on your guard."

The mercenaries that travelled with Andrivete stayed close to the carriage and the slaves that rode on one of the wagons huddled together. Whether it was their fear that affected everybody, Isabelle didn't know, but it seemed as if the woods around them grew darker and the air thicker. And where did that mist come from? She heard one of the slaves ask what had possessed their mistress to come to this demon-infested place.

She chuckled. To her this place with all its blue demons was freedom. Pure freed –

Screams erupted everywhere around her, followed by arrows. The slaves began to scream too and pushed each other off the wagon trying to get under it as soon as possible.

Isabelle drew her knives and stayed close to the wagon and carriage, watching the knights gallop to the forest edge with their bows ready. Soon, however, blue warriors spilled out over the area from between the trees. She dismounted and steered her horse out of harm's way.

Andrivete stuck her head outside her carriage to see what was going on.

"Get back inside," Isabelle bellowed.

"Oh, calm yourself, girl," she replied and pushed one of her maids out of the carriage. "Get down there with the others, Clara."

The maid stumbled out of the carriage and crawled under the wagon. Andrivete stepped outside as well with a knife in her hand. Seeing Isabelle's look, she smiled grimly and said, "I may not be a warrior, but I'm not completely useless when it comes to holding a knife either. So you go on and I'll keep watch here, er…what is your name?"

"Isabelle."

Isabelle had kept her eyes on the fighting knights and missed the suspicious look the maid Clara sent her, mouthing her name. The fight was moving towards the wagons quickly, despite the heavy blows the knights dealt to the Woad ranks with their bows.

"Stay back!" Isabelle shouted when a Woad came running towards her. Swiftly she moved away from the wagon to avoid being cornered and took a defensive stance. The Woad never stopped running and appeared to want to cut her down with a single strike.

Isabelle shifted her footing and hunched, waiting for the right moment to move out of his way. When he brought his sword down, she rolled to the side and slammed her knife backwards. A sickening crack told her she had hit target. Unfortunately her knife was now stuck in the man's spine. After a fruitless jerk she hurriedly pulled her small axe from her belt to fend the next Woad off.

Fighting in the blistering summer heat was exhausting. Isabelle found herself sweating and wheezing within moments while trying to keep this next and more patient Woad at bay.

"Are you all right?" Gawain shouted at her after she had given the Woad a mortal wound.

Completely out of breath she nodded. Gawain seemed to want to head towards her, but the fight took him in opposite direction. Isabelle watched him with goosebumps. She remembered her first Woad fight and how she had stood in awe at Tristan's fighting skills, but now she was not so sure what was more terrifying. Tristan's cold and composed killing, or Gawain's wild ferocity with which he entered each duel.

A loud curse in a Sarmatian dialect to her right caught her attention. Tristan was having trouble keeping his horse under control. Isabelle noticed the small wound on the horse's flank that looked like an arrow had grazed it. When another arrow flew past the horse's head it whinnied in panic and reared. For a moment Isabelle wondered what had got into Tristan, not being able to keep his horse under control, before it hit her that this was not Tristan's horse at all.

"Tristan, watch out!" she shouted when a Woad came up from the side.

He managed to parry the Woad's blow but his horse was now entirely beside itself. Rearing and bucking, the white of his eyes visible, Isabelle knew it was only a matter of time before Tristan would be thrown off.

And indeed, when the Woad brought his sword up again and hit the horse instead of the scout, Tristan flew out of the saddle, landing flat on his back.

He didn't get up.

"Oh God," Isabelle breathed. As much as she loathed the man, she did not want to see him dead.

The Woad, who had backed away from the mad horse, now advanced on the still not moving knight.

"Hey!" Isabelle yelled to get his attention and ran towards him. "Filthy coward! Can't handle someone who is conscious?"

The Woad snarled and whipped around, his sword at the ready. Isabelle twirled the axe in her hand, inviting him in. She glanced at Tristan, whose face was white and his body still.

She forced herself to be calm and patient. She would not help him by getting herself killed in her hurry to check on him. She focussed on the coming fight with his attacker. Attack, parry, riposte. The Woad was good, very good. And Isabelle felt her impatience grow.

Scolding herself for giving in to the biggest of mistakes, she took a step back to observe her opponent. Finally she saw an opportunity. He tended to lunge too deeply in his attack, leaving himself open to counterattacks.

She clenched her jaw and waited for the right moment, stepping in and driving her knife into his side when he made his mistake again. She finished it with a stab in his neck and pushed him to the side.

Tristan still hadn't regained consciousness, she noticed when she reached him. Carefully she patted his cheeks. He hadn't fallen that hard, had he? The ground was soft, wasn't it?

She let her hand slide over the back of his head cautiously, grimacing when it felt a sticky substance in his hair. "Damn it, damn it," she mumbled, when her fingers came across a stone, directly under Tristan's head.

"Wake up!" she ordered. "Damn it, you insufferable man! I don't have time to guard you. I don't _want_ to guard you!"

She willed herself not to worry too much, despite the large amount of blood in Tristan's hair. "Head wounds always bleed profusely. Stop being a child and wake up!" she hissed, glancing around to see if any Woads noticed their presence.

She patted his cheeks again, but dared not to move him, not knowing what damage had been done elsewhere. Nothing appeared to be broken, but she couldn't be sure. She switched to the Sarmatian curses Kay had taught her, hoping it would provoke Tristan.

"Isabelle!" Arthur shouted, leaping towards her. His face was contorted in worry. "Is he –"

"No, just unconscious," she answered quickly. "He fell on a rock."

Arthur kneeled opposite her and examined Tristan's wound himself. He sighed in relief. "It's not a large wound. He'll be fine."

Lancelot stalked towards them with tight lines around his mouth. "What happened?"

"He fell."

"Tristan fell?" he repeated incredulously.

"Not from his own horse," Isabelle answered. "From that creature from hell over there." She pointed at the borrowed horse, which was still running about.

Suddenly Tristan groaned and frowned.

"Wake up, man," Lancelot said loudly to mask his relief. "We can't have you lying around here."

Tristan brought his hand up to his face and scowled as if the light hurt him. "Lancelot?"

"In person."

"Do you know where you are, Tristan?" Arthur asked.

Tristan didn't answer, but opened his eyes. He looked at Lancelot, Arthur, and Isabelle. His eyes slowly closed again.

"No, stay awake, Tristan," Arthur said urgently. "Come on, my friend."

Two golden slits appeared again. The three of them bent over more closely. Tristan's eyes fixed themselves on Isabelle.

"Esyllt?"

It was almost too soft to hear. "What did he say?" Isabelle whispered. It sounded like a woman's name.

"He said Esyllt," Lancelot answered, searching Isabelle's face for recognition.

She frowned. "Who's Esyllt?"

"No one," he answered. "It's a Sarmatian pet name. It means beautiful."

Isabelle's face hardened and she pulled away from Tristan with a jerk. "Bastard," she hissed and stood to walk away.

"It's hardly an insult!" Lancelot called after her. "Kay calls you that all the time, doesn't he?"

"No, he doesn't," she snapped. She turned on her heels and marched away.

"And so the smoke clears," Lancelot commented. "Bit by bit."

Arthur gave him a warning look, quite like the one he had received from Dagonet. "I'm not sure what is going on here, but it doesn't seem to be any of your business, Lancelot."

"Don't worry, Arthur."

"Hmm."


	33. Reunion

**A/N: Hi everyone! I love all your reviews, everybody seems so excited about Lancelot finding out. All a bit eager to have the sht hit the fan, methinks... lol! But I should warn you; I am incapable of dealing with difficult situations quickly and adequately and my characters suffer from it. So please be patient (puppy face). Enough of my rambling, I hope you enjoy the chapter!**

**p.s. French men, Mandamirra10? I spent most of my time with French men who probably lived through the French Revolution, but there were some better-looking (and slightly younger) ones in Toulouse. No romances to report, I'm afraid. My French doesn't go beyond "Je m'appelle Nadia et je voudrais une baguette", and I don't think my boyfriend would approve ;).

* * *

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Reunion

The fight was over quickly. Besides Tristan none of the knights had sustained serious injuries. One of Andrivete's servants had been hit in the arm with an arrow and three of her mercenaries were dead.

Because Tristan had disposed of the contents of his stomach twice in half an hour and squinted in pain against the sunlight, Arthur suspected he had a concussion and ordered him to ride along in Andrivete's carriage. The glare his scout sent him promised little good, but Arthur was adamant.

It was only a little while left to the Wall and at the crossing near Pons Aelius they said goodbye to Seraphe, who turned right to head to the coastal fort Arbeia, and only moments later they left Junius and Dinadan behind.

Isabelle was caught up in the turmoil in her mind. Tristan had disrupted her life from the moment he had put her into that cell and did not appear to want to stop doing it anytime soon. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? He had made it perfectly clear what he thought of her, so why didn't he just back off? He knew how she felt about Gawain, so what was he trying to accomplish? She just couldn't understand him! Did he enjoy making her miserable that much? He probably did.

Shaking her head, Isabelle decided he was just being a cruel bastard, like she should have known he was all along.

She heard Gawain sigh in relief when their own fort came into view. She sent him a questioning look.

He shrugged casually. "It's more of a home than anyplace else."

She narrowed her eyes. "You are worried about Galahad. Admit it."

Gawain shrugged again. "The pup has a tendency to get himself into trouble. He needs a bit watching over. Now stop looking at me like that."

Isabelle hid her smile and looked at the fast nearing walls of the fort. A familiar figure stood on the walkway over the gate and then disappeared. When they rode through the outer gate, he was waiting for them, green eyes full of accusation. "What the hell took you so bloody long?" Galahad shouted.

"You've missed me then, I see?" Gawain grinned teasingly.

Galahad snorted loudly. "Don't flatter yourself. Your absence was the only thing that made my stay here bearable." He walked alongside his friend's horse to the military quarters. Apparently his leg had healed properly, because there was no sign of a limp.

"How are you, Isabelle?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm fine, but you should ask Gawain again why it took us so long," she answered slyly, ignoring the threatening glares from the blonde knight. "You see, he deterred us, being wounded and all. His ribs, his side, his arm…"

Galahad nearly choked on his indignation. "And you – you – you made me stay here!" he sputtered. "Because of a cut in my leg!"

"How was I supposed to know I would be wounded?" Gawain retorted, equally indignant.

"That is entirely beside the point!" Galahad insisted.

Isabelle chuckled and left the two to their heated bickering. She glanced around for Kay's bulky figure, smiling and waving when she discovered his black head between the gathered people. He winked and gestured to come and meet him later, but Gawain called out to him.

"Kay! Come along, will you!" He turned to Isabelle and muttered, "Best get this over with."

"Warn me when to take cover," she mumbled.

Slightly bewildered, the blacksmith followed them to the inner gate, where the carriage and wagons stopped. Arthur greeted Galahad before he walked over to the carriage and held out his hand.

Andrivete placed her hand in his and elegantly stepped out of the carriage. She tried to take in everything at once and had trouble keeping a composed face. Being in the fort visibly affected her. When her eyes fell on the tall, black-haired man leaning against the gate with crossed arms her face paled considerably.

"Take cover," Gawain mumbled.

"Er…Gawain?" Isabelle whispered.

"Aye?"

"Kay is turning purple."

"That is not a good sign."

Galahad, who had come to stand beside them, now gasped. "Gods on horses, is that Andrivete?"

"She is," Gawain nodded.

The three of them simultaneously turned their heads towards Kay, whose face indeed had become a dark shade of red, a sign of his rising temper.

"I've never seen him do that," Isabelle said.

Galahad's and Gawain's face contorted in much the same way. "That's because you've never seen Kay lose his temper," Gawain replied.

Kay pushed himself away from the gate with his shoulder and turned around, stalking away with a rigid back. The expression on his face created an easy path between the bystanders.

Andrivete smiled a false smile and turned to Arthur again, but her hands were shaking. She thanked Arthur for the room he had sent Jols to prepare for her and said she needed to rest to recover from the long journey. Arthur consented immediately and waved for a servant. Andrivete was followed by her nurse, Pia, and her maids.

The crowd dissolved quickly then. The stable hands took the horses from the knights, who wandered off in several directions. Bors lifted the waiting Vanora in a bone-crushing hug despite her now very round figure and ruffled the hair of several of his children, who all were asking where Dag was.

"He's fine, he's fine," Bors said loudly. The worried expression disappeared from Vanora's face. "Arthur had some business for him in Eboracum."

"Vanora!" Arthur called, while he delivered Tristan in the hands of the fort's healer, ignoring the scout's protests. "May I have a word, please?"

She turned around. "Of course, sir."

"I have two women who need housing and work. Do you know where they can find it?"

Vanora looked past Arthur to Oona and Dilys. "Aye, I do. They're still in need of a laundress and a maid in the main building, Celia told me. We could always use another hand in the Tavern and I know that Berwyn needs someone to look after his shop while he's on the road. You know how he loves to get his own goods, but now that his daughter is married, he's all alone.

"And for a room, come this way. I'll show you," she finished. Arthur led Oona and Dilys in Vanora's direction and walked along with them.

Isabelle stared after them. "I'd like to have a job too. I could provide for myself then. I could even have my own place to live."

"You have the money to give yourself a fresh start," Gawain said. "Go after them."

Isabelle's face split in a wide grin and she took off.

"Now there's an interesting new development," Galahad commented dryly.

"Shut up, pup," Gawain replied gruffly, but his eyes were still locked on Isabelle, who had broken into a run to reach Arthur and Vanora.

Galahad raised his eyebrows. "I see. So you've had a pleasant journey, despite getting yourself almost killed? And let me guess, she kept you warm at night and cooed over your wounds?"

"If you appreciate the shape of your nose, Galahad, I suggest you close that gap in your face this instance," his friend threatened.

"I consider my point proven."

Gawain punched him in the arm and ducked from Galahad's retaliation, but found himself in an arm lock a moment later. He yanked himself free and was about to deal another blow when they locked eyes. Laughing loudly, they walked to their rooms.

Gawain listened to Galahad regaling his weeks in the fort, which consisted mostly of him avoiding Celia, their fussy maid. He found his thoughts wandering off, contemplating the last few weeks.

Were his feelings for Isabelle that clear, that even Galahad noticed them in mere moments? He hadn't even decided what his feelings were himself. He loved to be around her and he loved to watch her talk to see the green of her eyes light up and the hand gestures with which she talked become more elaborate when she became enthusiastic about something.

Her apathy after having been captured by that pig Maurus had almost brought him to fear. The fact that he couldn't reach her and couldn't make her smile had tormented him more than he had thought. And when he had found out what was ailing her, that she believed that monster still had a claim on her, he'd wanted nothing more than to shake her until her bones rattled, to get through to her that he was there for her, that she wasn't alone, that he lo –

Gawain shook his head. It was too early to go there.

" – you even listening to me?"

"What?"

"Tristan is not the only one who fell, I see."

"_What_?"

"Tristan fell off his horse and you fell in – never mind."

Galahad resumed his report and Gawain's mind drifted off again.

He hadn't even noticed her when she had first come to work in the Tavern. Just another new barmaid with a pretty face, but nothing remarkable. That was, until she had broken a pitcher on a patron's head.

It had sparked not only his, but also Lancelot's interest. They had both tried their best, but the barmaid could not be swayed to join them in either of their beds. _Then_ he had noticed her. He had noticed every single movement, every single word she spoke. Gods, how being denied had made him want her.

And gods, how his pride was hurt when he'd found out she'd used him as part of her plan. The plan that had fortunately failed.

He remembered it well, that feverish body in Tristan's bed. So young. Too young for such deadly plans, too young for such maltreatment, too young for his bed. She hadn't wanted to hear a word of his apologies though, which, admittedly, did his pride a world of good.

She had recovered. There was little left of the feisty barmaid, but sometimes he recognized bits and as she grew stronger more of that spirit returned. He knew then her act hadn't been completely an act. They had seen parts of Isabelle while she still posed as Anwen.

He liked this Isabelle. He liked that she seemed to be at ease around him. He liked that he could draw her out. She hadn't trusted him – he doubted she trusted anyone early in her stay – but that had changed.

He knew there were still things she hadn't told him, but he was certain that she would in time. He wouldn't push her.

He snorted. Here he was, planning for the future when he could be killed tomorrow. He could only hope that the gods would give him enough time. Again he shook his head. It was too early to go there. Thinking about the future was bad luck. None of the knights did it, not wanting to tempt fate.

A few days with her weren't enough though. He couldn't help himself. But he would have to settle for living day by day, with her.

"GAWAIN!"

He jumped. "Damn it, man, you don't have to deafen me!" he yelled.

"I've asked you a question three times!" Galahad said.

"Oh," he said sheepishly. "What did you say?"

"I said that there were going to be a lot of disappointed girls in the Tavern," Galahad repeated himself for the fourth time. "Unless you plan to continue your…er…ways there, but by the look on your face I doubt it."

"No, I don't think I will," Gawain said slowly and screwed up his face. "By the gods, I fear Sian's reaction already. That woman has a mean right hook."

"Well, sacrifices must be made for love," Galahad declared pompously.

Gawain sent him a suspicious look. "Have you been drinking?"

* * *

Isabelle was thrilled. Vanora had shown her the trader Berwyn's shop and he had hired her. She had an honest job! 

When Berwyn had told she would have to stand up to angry clients, Vanora had burst out laughing and told the trader he had nothing to worry about. Berwyn seemed to have believed the barmaid instantly and told Isabelle she could start next week.

All that was left now was to get her own space to live, but she was in no hurry. She wanted to take a bath and dress in some clean clothes, but most of all, she wanted to tell Gawain.

She figured he would be in the bathhouse, so unfortunately she would have to wait, since she was not allowed there. The bathhouse was open to women on fixed times and in a fort which was inhabited mostly by men those times were few.

She turned left to go to her room and stopped a servant to ask for a bath in her room. The next hour she spent in the water, soaking all the dirt off her in pleasant solitude. Celia was probably with Andrivete, the lady she had once served.

After drying herself, Isabelle picked a simple, loose-fitting dress and ate a quick meal that was brought by the servant. She lingered in the hallway, not knowing where to go to. She sauntered to Kay's but he wasn't there, so she made her way to the stables to visit Gawain's foal.

It had yet to be named, but already it knew that Isabelle's presence meant treats. The foal pushed its nose through the fence and into the pockets of her dress. Laughing softly, Isabelle got out the apple she had saved from her meal.

"Have you thought of a name?"

Isabelle turned around and smiled at Gawain. "He is to be a warhorse, isn't he?"

"Aye."

"I was thinking of Deimos."

Gawain raised an eyebrow at his foal, which cheerfully hopped back to its mother on its too long legs and rubbed its head against her. "A real terror he is."

"He will be," she chuckled.

"Very well, Deimos it is," Gawain gave in. "It's a good name for a warhorse. Though you are spoiling him."

He leaned his arms on the fence. "I'll have to start riding his mother again soon."

"You can't separate them already," she protested, leaning on the fence next to him. "He's so young!"

"Gone soft, have we?" he teased, tugging on a stray strand of hair.

She made a face at him and grinned, but the smile slowly left her face when he didn't let go of her hair, but twirled it around his finger, his expression pensive as he gazed at the curl.

She swallowed when he raised his eyes to her face and took a step closer. His hand left her hair and caressed her jaw. _Finally!_ her body screamed while her heart began to pound as he stepped even closer.

Her mind protested that it wasn't fair to him, that she was deceiving him, but the moment his mouth closed over hers she couldn't care less. He was so warm, so deliciously warm, that she moved closer to him instinctively and fisted her hands in his clothing.

Gawain took his time to taste her, his kiss as languid as it was sensual. His whiskers tickled against her skin as his lips moved over hers. When he coaxed her mouth open with his tongue he pulled her closer and pressed her body against his, further deepening their kiss.

Isabelle leaned against him, feeling her desire grow in her lower stomach, heightened by the torturously slow pace of Gawain's kiss. He explored her mouth leisurely, a contrast to their first kiss so many months past. His resolve weakened, however, when she pushed her hips up to his. His hands slid down her back to grasp them and keep them there.

Isabelle gasped in his mouth, but froze when background sounds from outside became too loud to ignore.

" – DON'T CARE WHAT YOUR REASONS WERE!"

Gawain lifted his head, looking extremely displeased at the interruption. Kay's thundering bass was easily recognisable. It was instantly followed by a woman's voice.

"What could you have offered me, Kay? Besides being widowed quickly? Oh no, not even widowed, because you couldn't marry me while you were in service!"

"Septimus didn't marry you either, did he?" Kay retorted nastily.

"But he offered me a secure life, away from this border full of death!" Andrivete shouted.

The voices came closer and Isabelle realised the two former lovers planned to continue their shouting match in the stables. Right when she wanted to say this to Gawain, he took her hand and led her deeper into the large building, bringing a finger to his lips to shush her.

He walked straight to the haystack and pulled her out of sight the moment the doors slammed open, both of them cringing when Kay's anger echoed between the walls.

"AND YOU COULDN'T CARE LESS ABOUT WHAT WE HAD!"

Isabelle shuddered. Kay was truly terrifying when furious and she couldn't even see him. She buried her nose in Gawain's chest in front of her. He stood very still, one arm around her waist, listening to the fight. His arm tightened around her when he felt her move closer.

"For God's sake, Kay, open your eyes to this place! When I left there were thirty-five knights in service! Six are all who are left now! What happened to Bedivere? To Cador? Hoel? Yvain, Gaheris, Pelles? The only thing I left here was death!"

Another loud outburst from Kay made her jump. Isabelle held a new respect for Andrivete, being able to stand up to the hulking blacksmith, but, she figured, she would have to have been more than a simple girl to have attracted Kay's attention for so long. Kay who, despite the frightening scar in his face and his age, still broke a woman's heart on a regular basis.

Who apparently had his own broken by this particular woman.

"How long do you think they'll be at it?" Isabelle whispered.

Gawain looked down at her face. "It's Kay. Hours, probably."

"Wonderful."

"Ah, but I have no intention listening to them all this time we are trapped here," he rumbled, a mischievous grin spreading on his face.

"Really?" Isabelle chuckled. "What are your intentions then?"

Gawain's grin widened. He took a step to the right and dropped himself backwards into the hay, pulling her on top of him.

Isabelle gave him a wicked smirk and crawled up his body to get level with his face. "I approve of your intentions," she said and kissed him.


	34. An Old Acquaintance

**A/N: The layout is a little different because the dividing line thingies don't work for some reason...**

**Anyways, just a big hug to everyone. I love how different the opinions are on G/I/T! ( And of course, I love you for letting me know :) ) From downright Gawain-supporters to Tristan-fanatics and to a little in between, it's great to read! Unfortunately for those who want to see her happy with either knight, my evil mind is nowhere near done with them! You didn't think I would make it that easy, did you? ( Slightly Kill Bill-ish, but who's counting) But (especially LegolasIsMine) hold your horses, when it said 'deceiving', I only meant that she felt she wasn't being honest for not telling, she's not leading Gawain on, her feelings for him are genuine. **

**Priestess, LaydeeBear, Furibondo: I'm glad I could put Galahad back too. He's a favourite of mine :) **

Final note - I won't bother you much longer - in this chapter I go way, way back to almost the beginning of the story. It's a while ago ( understatement) so I hope it's not too confusing. It's an early plot line that needs to be developed now.

**So a huge thank you to everyone for reviewing!**

**----**

**An Old Acquaintance**

Isabelle hardly had the time to tell Gawain about her new job. The morning after they had returned Arthur and the knights rode out of the gate at high speed, moments after a messenger had reported that a village was under attack by Woads.

Feeling a little lost she wandered to Kay's home and found him in his smithy, working furiously on a piece of metal. Frustration emanated off him in every direction.

"Kay?" she asked timidly.

"Ah, little imp," he greeted her, wiping his face. "I was wondering when you'd come to visit me."

"Are you... all right?"

He snorted. "When have you become so delicate? Let's just call me 'taken by surprise'. I think that covers it fairly well."

"Arthur didn't know she was heading north. He met her in Eboracum and then she suddenly was on the road ahead of us," she rambled apologetically. "He had to invite her."

"Stop worrying, lass. Andrivete and I just have a difficult history." He put his hammer down. "I never thought I would see her again," he added musingly. "It changes a lot. As I said, taken by surprise. But I reckon you know all about that. Gawain surely filled you in."

She nodded. "Aye, he did."

Kay raised a knowing black eyebrow. "You two seem to be getting along quite well, don't you?"

Isabelle coughed, feeling her face heat up. "Quite well."

She remembered his goodbye this morning also 'quite well'. She'd still been asleep when he'd marched into her room. She'd sat up straight with a dagger in her hand, before she'd sighed and dropped on her back.

"I have to leave," Gawain had said, grinning at her exasperated face. "We should be back in a few days."

"Wait, where are you going?" she'd insisted, but Gawain had already put one knee on her bed and one hand under her head and kissed her so thoroughly her toes curled.

He'd pulled back and smiled a satisfied smile at the sight of her flushed face and swollen lips. "A village is under attack. We won't be long," he'd finally answered her question. Curiously he'd looked at her bare shoulders and the simple sheet that hid the rest of her body. "What are you wearing under that sheet?"

Isabelle had grinned smugly. "You mean what am I not wearing?"

"Gawain, hurry up!" Galahad's voice had bellowed from the hallway at that moment.

Gawain had groaned. "This is very, _very_ cruel."

"GAWAIN!"

"I'm coming!" Gawain had bellowed back. After a wistful look at her, he'd walked out of the door.

Kay's sniggering brought her back to the present. "Quite well indeed."

Isabelle flushed again and to add to her embarrassment her stomach rumbled loudly.

Still laughing quietly, Kay walked out of his smithy, beckoning her to follow him, and into his house, where he fixed them a quick meal. They settled on a bench outside. Being a blacksmith paid him well and Isabelle enjoyed the light bread and creamy cheese.

"So," she began carefully, "what are you going to do about Andrivete?"

Kay chewed thoughtfully on his bread. "I don't know. I don't know why she's here."

"She said she wanted to visit her old home. She's a widow now; she can do what she wants."

"Andrivete has always done what she wanted," Kay replied. "Make no mistake about that. She has always managed to get things her way, no regard of the consequences."

"Including you."

Kay narrowed his piercing blue eyes at her, but then sighed. "Including me."

They sat in silence for a while, until footsteps and a bickering voice made them look up. Tristan walked towards the smithy, followed by a flustered looking Roman healer, who told him off for getting out of bed. Tristan steadily ignored the man despite the fact that his brow was still knotted together in pain, which indicated that the healer might have had a point.

"What happened to you?" Kay asked. "Why aren't you away with Arthur?"

"He wouldn't let me," Tristan asked. "On the healer's advice." The glare the healer now received made him take a step back and snap his mouth shut.

"Suit yourself then," the man snapped, coughing to hide a sudden squeak, and stalked away.

Isabelle stuffed her mouth full of bread to prevent herself from commenting while Kay grinned broadly at the scout. "What have you been diagnosed with this time?"

"Concussion," Tristan answered and glanced at Isabelle, whose cheeks were still puffed out with bread. She chewed slowly, while shooting glowering looks at him, daring him to call her beautiful now that she looked like an overachieving hamster.

"Aye, such a simple ailment as a concussion surely can't keep you in bed. What was Arthur thinking?" Kay drawled dryly. "If the Woads don't kill you someday, you yourself certainly will, my friend."

Tristan conveniently ignored the last comment. "I came to ask you to redo Perun's horseshoe. He stepped in a rabbit hole a few days ago. Now it's loose."

"Hence the concussion?" Kay inquired.

"Indirectly," Isabelle answered for him. Tristan stared blankly at her, which made her resentment towards him suddenly flare up. "You know, Kay, I've been wanting to ask you something. What does 'Esyllt' mean?"

"Esyllt?" Kay asked surprised. "That's Sarmatian. It's a little name to compliment someone who's beautiful, why?"

Isabelle relished in the satisfaction of seeing Tristan's face tauten. The lines around his mouth deepened when he pressed his lips together.

"Oh, I heard it somewhere," she answered vaguely.

"Well, you don't say it for no reason," Kay added. "Did someone say –"

"_Actually_, in this particular case," Isabelle interrupted heatedly, gazing hard into Tristan's eyes, "I do believe the speaker had no reason at all – and certainly no right – to say such a thing. The person he said it too did not appreciate it in the slightest and had the speaker not been suffering from – from an injury already she would have given him a concussion _herself_!"

She stormed off, a chunk of bread still clutched in her fist.

Kay turned his eyes ominously to Tristan. "What did you do?" he asked threateningly.

Tristan stared after Isabelle, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "Nothing," he snapped. "I'll come back later." Without waiting for a reply he left, crossing the street with large strides while pinching the bridge of his nose. His headache had suddenly increased tenfold.

----

Isabelle didn't pay any attention whatsoever where she was going. Inwardly cursing the damn scout and his constant interference in her life, as well as her own lack of composure, she walked across the courtyard.

Tristan's presence prevented her from giving in to Gawain. He was the reason she felt guilty and he was the reason she was afraid to be honest with Gawain, the man she'd grown very attached to. She scowled at her own wording. More than just attached to. She wanted him, loved to be around him, missed him when he was away…

It would have been perfect; she would have had everything she could ever have hoped for, had it not been for Tristan. What was he thinking, calling her a strange name like that? The nerve of him, after all he had said to her. She didn't want to have anything to do with him anymore after the way he had violated her trust. Because she _had_ trusted him, a trust stood apart from the confusing attraction she had felt. She had believed him to be more than the terrifying scout she had encountered in the cells.

He had proved her wrong. Undoubtedly and without consideration. And now, _now_, when her feelings for Gawain were so strong – much stronger even than they had been for Titus – he again caused confusion!

"Isabelle?"

Her head shot up. There stood the maid Andrivete had pushed out of her carriage. What had she called her? Cara? Mara? Clara!

"Aye?"

The blonde woman fidgeted with her hands and took a deep breath. "Where is your sister, Isabelle?"

"I – I beg your pardon?" Isabelle sputtered in shock.

"Anna, your sister," Clara persisted. "Where is she? You are Isabelle Roche, aren't you, the younger sister of Anna?"

"Who the hell are you?" Isabelle breathed aghast. How could a maid, a simple slave woman, know about her past?

"Don't you remember me?" the woman asked forlornly. "Claire? Claire Masson?"

The ground seemed to sway under Isabelle's feet. "Claire?" she wheezed. "Claire? But you were sold. After those soldiers were killed. By Claudius, in Rome. We didn't know to whom. Is it really you?"

"Yes, it's me. I was bought by Andrivete's overseer of her household in Rome."

Claire had been of Anna's age during their time with the deserted soldiers, so she had to be about twenty-two now. Her face was wan and her brown eyes were dejected. Her shoulders were hunched. All in all Claire looked defeated. Isabelle realised with a jolt that her life in this time had broken her, like it had broken Anna.

"Have they – has Andrivete not been treating you well?" she asked warily.

Claire shook her head. "As well as a slave can expect. I serve my mistress well and she rewards me in return."

Isabelle stared horrified at the unhappy woman in front of her.

"I have a son, you know," Claire continued. "He was sold a few months past. I don't think I mind very much. He reminded me too much of those soldiers. But where is Anna?"

"Er…" Isabelle began, shaking her head to clear it, "I'm sorry, Claire, but she's dead. She didn't want to live anymore." Unexpectedly her throat tightened. "She died two years ago."

"What happened?" Claire whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

"She'd had enough of being forced to do things she didn't want to do." Isabelle didn't think divulging the exact details would do Claire any good.

"What about you?"

Isabelle smiled grimly. "I adjusted. And now I'm free." It was the first time she had said it out loud and somehow it made it more real.

"Have you ever been back there?" Claire asked. "Back to those caves?"

"No, I don't remember which cave it was."

"Me neither," Claire said, looking even more morose. "And who's to say it works both ways anyway?" She lifted her head and took in her surroundings. "You have found a strange place to live. But you seem happy."

Except for right now, when she had steam coming out of her ears, Isabelle thought, but she smiled. "I am happy here."

"How on earth did you get here? At this border at the end of the world?"

"Claire," Isabelle chuckled. "It's hardly the end of the world. We should know that."

"_Here_ it is the end of the world," Claire replied sharply, contrasting her earlier soft tone. She blinked. "So how _did _you end up here?"

"That is a very long story, but in short, I came here with…a message for Arthur and I couldn't go back after I had…er…delivered it." Isabelle didn't know if she could trust Claire and she most certainly did not trust Andrivete. "He let me stay here," she finished.

"Arthur," Claire mumbled, "and his knights. I couldn't believe it when my mistress told me. All that's left now is for me to hear that Merlin actually exists and the madness will be complete."

"Well…" Isabelle began.

"Oh my God," Claire groaned.

"He's the leader of the Woads."

"Yes, Woads. Blue men. _Blue!_"

"I take it you don't like being here?" Isabelle asked.

Claire shook her head. "I've been to Thracia with my mistress where I've only seen war… And the rogue soldiers…" She swallowed. "I've seen enough of violence and death, Isabelle. I thought we would finally be at peace when my mistress had to leave Thracia, but…"

Isabelle frowned. "Why did she had to leave Thracia?"

Claire's large, brown eyes widened. "I – I only meant that she wanted to leave. My Latin is still not completely fluent," she apologized.

Isabelle made a noncommittal sound and Claire smiled weakly. "So you and I are all who are left."

"I suppose we are," Isabelle agreed. She took a deep breath. "Have you – have you ever told anyone? About us? And what happened in those caves?"

Claire gasped. "Of course not! They'd take me for a witch, or if I'm lucky only a lunatic. Why, have you?"

"No, for the same reasons. Anna never told anyone either."

"Well, let's keep it that way," Claire insisted, now glancing around her as if someone were listening in on them already. "Life here is difficult enough as it is."

Isabelle felt her heart clench in pity. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Do you have enough gold to free me?" Claire asked without hope.

She shook her head.

"Does anyone here have enough gold to free me?"

Again, Isabelle shook her head.

"Then there is nothing you can do for me," Claire said resigned.

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, me too."


	35. Witnesses

**A/N: In haste! Going out! Finished resits today (praying that I've done alright) so celebrating now :D. Love you all for making my day with your reviews - criticism is welcome too! - and I am leaving now. Hope you enjoy!**

**p.s. There are a lot of exclamation marks in there, aren't there?**

**p.p.s: SwEeTiE823, Furibondo: I'm going to be cruel and drag it out for a few more chapters. Definitely. Going now!**

**------------------------**

**Witnesses**

Isabelle shifted her weight impatiently from one foot to the other. She had heard the shouts from the guards that the knights were returning ages ago. What was keeping them so long?

Next to her Vanora chuckled, but was prevented from making a comment when the awaited group of riders rode past them. Isabelle let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding when she discovered Gawain's wild, tawny mane somewhere in the middle.

Quickly the two women followed them, waiting behind the wrought-iron gates until Arthur dismissed his men. Next to Isabelle, Vanora was wrapped in her lover's thickly muscled arms within moments.

Gawain sauntered towards her with a grin.

"You said it would only be a few days," Isabelle said accusingly.

"Ah," Gawain answered with a one-shouldered shrug, "but you see, Galahad was so happy to be outside on his horse again we let him gallivant along the countryside for a few extra days."

His friend, who'd been walking one step behind him, delivered a well-aimed smack to the back of Gawain's head.

Isabelle snorted disapprovingly when Gawain's grin only widened. He stopped in front of her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "I've missed you too."

"That is not what I mea –"

Gawain rolled his eyes and cut her off with his lips. The absence of ten days – spent chasing Woads out of the village and back over the Wall – had certainly made his heart grow fonder and he kissed her with fervour.

Isabelle smiled at the appreciative growl she heard when she opened her mouth for him, making her stomach flip, and kissed him back with equal force, until the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Someone was watching.

She stepped away from Gawain and glanced around her. Behind the gates, in the military quarter, stood Tristan, seemingly listening to Arthur, but his eyes bore into her own as they had bored into her back a moment ago.

Isabelle cleared her throat, feeling the usual stinging guilt replace the longing Gawain awoke so easily. She sighed and cursed the blonde knight for being so unpresumptuous; she knew he'd noticed she had pulled away from him, but he didn't ask questions, assuming she would tell him when she wanted to. It did not make things any easier.

He flung an arm around her shoulder, asking her about her job with Berwyn and about Kay, and slowly they strolled away.

"Gawain, you know about me and my sister and those deserted soldiers, don't you?" Isabelle began.

"Aye, I do. Why?"

"Do you remember there was a third girl who survived and was sent to Rome with us?"

"Hmm, no, I think Tristan must have left that part out. Again, why?" he wanted to know.

"That girl's name was Clai – Clara. She was sold to someone else before my sister and I were. We never knew what happened to her."

"I see," Gawain said slowly. "Do you want to find her? I'm afraid that'll be near impossible. You'd have to go to that slave trader and pray he's fussy about his administration."

"No, no," Isabelle hastened to say. "I don't have to find her, she's already here. She's one of Andrivete's maids."

Gawain's eyes widened. "You're certain?"

"Aye, without a doubt. I've talked to her."

Gawain blew up his cheeks, letting his breath escape loudly. "That must've been difficult."

"It was," Isabelle nodded. "But what can I do?"

I'm sorry, but there's nothing much you can do," Gawain answered. "Unless you have the money to buy and set her free, her only option is to be given her freedom."

"What are the chances of that?"

Gawain's look said it all.

------------------

It turned out that Isabelle had not imagined Tristan's stare, as she had hoped. Every time she and Gawain seemed to be getting closer, Isabelle would sense another pair of eyes. It was driving her mad.

Dagonet returned from Eboracum, reporting that Amarante had safely embarked on the ship that would take her to Greece. Isabelle studied Lancelot's face, but he had hidden his true feelings behind charming smiles and drawling comments.

Having all his men safely back in his fort relieved Arthur of a good deal of tension and he was in such a good mood he joined his men in the Tavern for several days in a row, much to the delight of the barmaids. The situation between Kay and Andrivete was still explosive, but even that couldn't bother him, nor the reason for the Thracian woman's visit or the elusive nature of the person who wanted him dead. Arthur had put the burdens of his occupation aside for a few well-needed moments of peace, it appeared.

Isabelle could not find peace. Tristan seemed to be everywhere, ruining every minute she spent with Gawain. Her confusion over his behaviour, her anger about him being near, her guilt towards Gawain, besides the other feelings she had for him… It had caused a chaos in her head she didn't know how to solve.

Being free certainly was complicated.

-------------------

Lancelot chuckled when Kay stretched himself on the ground next to him like a very large feline creature. The raging heat had turned into a pressing, muggy warmth that indicated that heavy storms were drawing closer. Personally, Lancelot couldn't wait. He would have trouble refraining from dancing in the rains like a girl.

"Bleedin' gods," Kay commented after he had rolled himself on his stomach and opened one eye to look at the two people bantering and, occasionally, fighting. "Have they become inseparable now?"

Lancelot watched as Gawain caught Isabelle's lunge with his axe and jerked her a little closer. Smugly he said something to her, but the two men were too far away to hear it, though not far enough to miss the indignant expression on her face and the rude gesture she threw him. Gawain roared with laughter.

The two men sniggered. Isabelle was a sore loser.

"What is so amusing?" Dagonet asked as he strolled past his languorous friends seeking coolness in the shadow of the stables.

"Isabelle lost to Gawain," Lancelot explained. "Again."

Dagonet sat himself on the ground. "And this requires an audience?" he inquired dryly.

"Excuse me, we were already here when they began trying to prick holes in each other," Lancelot declared.

"Which means you've been lazing about for a long time," Dagonet replied.

"Shut up."

Kay turned himself on his back again with a loud groan and folded his arms under his head. "I haven't got any urgent repairs or orders at the moment. 'S too hot to work anyway." He lifted his head a little to look at Isabelle and Gawain. "Can't imagine what has addled their brains to make them exercise in this type of weather."

Lancelot and Dagonet grunted in agreement, while Isabelle launched a new attack on Gawain. He had annoyed her to the point where she threw her weapons aside and pounced. The three onlookers groaned in pity for Gawain; Isabelle had jumped on top of him, drawing up her knees to drive them into his chest. Gawain staggered backwards under her weight, but managed to remain standing. Disappointed, Isabelle slid down, back on her feet, but Gawain held her waist, burying his face in her neck.

They could see Isabelle squirm and laugh and then give in to the kiss Gawain claimed from her. Unexpectedly, she did something strange. One moment she seemed to be taken up by Gawain, the next moment she pulled away from him. She mumbled something and picked her weapons up.

For a moment Gawain appeared to want to say something, but he kept his mouth shut and instead made a cheerful remark. Isabelle smiled in response, but still looked somewhat downcast.

"What was that?" Kay asked.

"I don't know," Lancelot answered, equally mystified.

Dagonet sighed. He had seen the third figure in the scene.

"She was acting strange when she came to visit me a while ago too," Kay noted. "Seemed to be angry at Tristan when he stopped by. Something happen between them?"

"I'm not sure," Lancelot replied. "She was unreasonable upset when he told her she was beautiful – well, let it slip, actually."

"You mean he was the one who called her Esyllt," Kay deducted. "Why would that upset her? I've never met a woman who didn't like to be called beautiful before."

"And why have they stopped talking to each other?" Lancelot added. "Dag, you seemed to know more when we were in Eboracum," he continued, remembering he had been wanting to talk to him since they were in the city.

Dagonet shrugged. "It's none of your business."

"You know I will find out anyway."

Dag frowned. Lancelot was right; he would pry incessantly until his curiosity was satisfied. "Aye, I know what happened. I was there the morning after."

"The morning after?" Lancelot repeated blankly. "Holy gods, are you certain?" he said when it dawned on him what Dag had meant.

Dagonet merely raised an eyebrow at him.

"Isabelle and Tristan, I knew it!" Lancelot laughed, slapping his own knee.

Kay now propped himself on his elbows. "If Tristan bedded her, why is she with Gawain now?" he wanted to know.

"Do I really have to explain what Tristan did?" Dagonet retorted darkly.

Kay's eyes narrowed. "Bastard."

"What?" Lancelot interjected. "And Gawain was just convenient?"

"Don't be thick, Lance," Dag snapped. "Just look at them. We all thought it would be Gawain all along."

"Then what is the problem?" Lancelot demanded, gesturing at the two who had returned to their sparring.

Dagonet sighed and pointed at the armoury. Tristan was leaning in the doorway, examining a bow with interest.

"I hadn't seen him," Lancelot said.

"Isabelle had," Dag replied.

"Rather inconvenient moment for him to turn up there," Kay remarked.

"Kay," Dag said patiently, "after all these years, you still don't realise that you only see Tristan when he _wants_ to be seen?"

The older man sat up straight. "What do you mean? Are you saying he's doing this on purpose?" His voice raised in anger.

"No, I'm not. I don't even think he's aware of what he's doing."

"Doesn't make it right," Kay hissed. His knuckles cracked with an unnerving sound.

"For the love of Arthur and Andrivete's god, Kay," Lancelot sighed exasperated. "Don't you have enough problems as it is without attempting to remove Tristan's head?"

"I think I can find the spare time," the blacksmith told him.

Lancelot rolled his eyes. "Dag, does Gawain know?"

"Have you seen _Gawain_ trying to remove Tristan's head lately?" Dag replied.

"Good point."

"I think that's the problem. Perhaps she doesn't know how to tell Gawain. She feels guilty for not telling," Dagonet said. "But as I said, it's none of your business. Of both of you," he added.

"What the hell was he thinking?" Kay growled. "That girl is not some wench to take and cast aside as you like. After what she's been through… It would take a cold son of a whore to do that to her, letting her close and pushing her away."

"Exactly," Dagonet agreed.

"A cold son of a whore? Tristan can be a wretch when he chooses to, but Isabelle?" Lancelot frowned. "Strange as it was, they got along well."

"I meant, letting her get close is exactly what he did," Dagonet clarified. "Perhaps too close."

"If what you say is true, Dag, that man had better sort out his problems before I do it for him," Kay threatened with a dark look at the scout. "I will not have him ruin what Isabelle and Gawain have because he doesn't know what to do with a woman besides getting her on her back."

"You know it's more complicated than that," Dagonet said.

Kay huffed. "Tristan has been complicated since he arrived here as a boy. What goes on in his head is his own business, but not at the expense of others."

There was silence for a while.

Lancelot broke it. "This is not for you to solve, Kay," he said quietly.

"You are taking his side now?" the blacksmith sputtered.

Lancelot shrugged. "Sometimes it takes an outsider to see things clearly, but sometimes it doesn't," he said. "Sometimes things are different from what they seem and only those who are involved see the matter for what it is. This matter is between Tristan and Isabelle, and now Gawain too. They'll have to deal with it."

Kay still grumbled a little, but the other two knew they had convinced him.

"Now, tell me about Andrivete," Lancelot demanded. "Have you two killed each other yet?"

-------------------

Vanora peered at her. "You don't look so good, Isabelle. Is something troubling you?"

"Aye," Isabelle sighed and plonked herself on a bench.

Vanora, who was scouring the tables in the Tavern, paused and asked, "Do you want to tell me?"

Isabelle threw a hand in the air. "You already know more than most people, so why not?"

"I'll just finish this table and then I'll listen. There won't be any customers for a while," Vanora said.

Isabelle waited glumly, nodding in thanks when Vanora pushed a mug of mead under her nose and sat opposite her. "Tell me what's going on."

Isabelle sighed. "It's Gawain."

"Gawain?"

"Aye – no. Well, yes, him and Tristan."

"What did they do?" Vanora inquired darkly.

Isabelle chuckled in spite of her mood. "Nothing, I suppose. That's the problem. I haven't told Gawain about what happened with Tristan," she confessed. "I know he wonders why Tristan and I don't get along anymore, but he won't ask. So Gawain does nothing. And Tristan does nothing either! He just stands there, staring with that cold look of his, unnerving me."

"Seems to me Tristan is doing a lot," Vanora softly pointed out.

"He is making me feel guilty!" Isabelle said vehemently.

"Why haven't you told Gawain?"

Isabelle stared in her mug. "I'm afraid to. What would he say? He would think I was dishonest, maybe he would even think I am only with him because Tristan didn't want me. I couldn't bear it if he thought that."

"Are you?"

Isabelle's head shot up. "No! You know I'm not! I lov –"

Vanora smiled triumphantly at her. "You love him," she finished for the stunned younger woman, who now glowered at her.

"You tricked me," she accused.

"And I got the truth," Vanora replied. "And you have your truth. You love Gawain, so why worry about Tristan? Tell him, or don't tell him, it makes no difference. You were never unfaithful. What happened between you and Tristan is something of the past. It cost you a friendship, regrettably, but you are not the first woman to which Tristan has done this and I doubt you'll be the last. I said to you once that you would have to find out for yourself what to do, do you remember?"

Isabelle nodded.

"You_ have_ found out, haven't you? Maybe not in the way you expected, and not without being hurt, but you know now. Tristan or Gawain? I think the answer is clear."

"You knew, didn't you?" Isabelle said. "You knew what Tristan would do."

"Would you have listened if I'd warned you?"

"Probably not," Isabelle admitted.

"I didn't know for certain, but I would have been very surprised if Tristan had acted any different than he had."

"He hurt me."

"That is no reason for you to throw away what you and Gawain have," Vanora pressed. "Nor should you feel guilty. You took a risk and it came out wrong, but you don't need to punish yourself for it. Forget Tristan, you love Gawain and that's all that matters."

Two Roman soldiers entered the Tavern and took a seat.

"Gawain is all that matters now," Vanora repeated and stood, stepping slowly over the bench, holding the bulge of her belly. "What can I get you lads?" she called to her customers.

"Ale, Vanora!" one of them shouted cheerfully. "To drive off this heat!"

"Right away!" she grinned. She winked at Isabelle and strolled away.

------------------

Despite Vanora's useful advice Isabelle was still not completely at ease. She slept fitfully that night and stepped out of bed before dawn. After dressing, she threw open the shutters and stuck her head out of the window. The sky was clouded. She could smell rain coming.

To distract herself she walked to the training court with Galahad's old bow, which he had given her some time ago. She prepared a target and filled her quiver with arrows. She was still no wonder child with the bow, but she was getting better.

She'd managed to hit the dead centre of the target thrice – and spent over an hour to accomplish this mighty feat – when a voice startled her.

"You've improved," Tristan commented.

She let the arrow she had prepared to fire loose. It splintered against the wall next to her target.

"Somewhat," Tristan added.

Isabelle clenched her bow tightly in her hand. "What do you want?" she snapped without looking at him.

"Why isn't Gawain with you?" he retorted tauntingly. "You two are hardly apart these days."

Now she looked at him, her eyes full of fury. "How dare you! That is absolutely none of your business!"

She stared at him, angry but not understanding his motives. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to practice."

"Then practise," she growled. "And leave me the hell alone." She turned on her heels to face her target again.

"Not yet," he replied. "Look at me, Isabelle," he ordered.

"I beg your pardon?" she huffed, looking disbelievingly over her shoulder.

"I believe you have some things to say to me," he said. "Say them."

Slowly she turned back, facing him. Her eyes measured him while he stood there silently. She took a step closer.

Tristan didn't move.

Before she could stop herself, her arm had swung back and dealt a forceful blow to his jaw with her right fist. Tristan's head snapped backwards, not having expected her to lash out in the least.

Isabelle clasped her hand over her mouth when she saw him press a hand against his sore jaw. He would kill her, that she was certain of. But oh, seeing that infuriatingly impassive expression dissolve into incredulous shock was worth a thousand painful deaths. Two thousand. An eternity of pain.

Tristan moved his jaw to check if it was broken. When he had assured himself it wasn't, his eyes fixed themselves on her.

She swallowed.

Suddenly his eyes narrowed in anger. Isabelle staggered backwards, but Tristan had already lunged forward with an alarming speed, straight through her defences.


	36. Sparring and Arguing

**A/N: I love cliffhangers! And in particular the reactions in the reviews afterwards :) That said, sorry for leaving the chapter at such an --evil but necessary -- moment and for failing to update for such a long time. I wanted to finish my other story and in order to do that I had a few very difficult chapters to write, which I wanted to get done first. After that, I redecorated my room :D.**

**I hope you haven't given up on me, because I intend to finish this story. There was a question in a review ( by Alyssa) about how many chapters it would be. I've no idea. The complete plot is in my head, but chapters always turn out longer than I plan, because I'm too fond of minor characters, but I'd say at least ten more.**

**Everybody thanks for reviewing and I hope you enjoy this chapter, in which --oh, shock!-- we get to see a bit of Tristan. ( And no, I did not mean it that way!)**

**

* * *

**

_Chapter 35_

_"I believe you have some things to say to me," he said. "Say them."_

_Slowly she turned back, facing him. Her eyes measured him while he stood there silently. She took a step closer._

_Tristan didn't move._

_Before she could stop herself, her arm had swung back and dealt a forceful blow to his jaw with her right fist. Tristan's head snapped backwards, not having expected her to lash out in the least._

_Isabelle clasped her hand over her mouth when she saw him press a hand against his sore jaw. He would kill her, that she was certain of. But oh, seeing that infuriatingly impassive expression dissolve into incredulous shock was worth a thousand painful deaths. Two thousand. An eternity of pain._

_Tristan moved his jaw to check if it was broken. When he had assured himself it wasn't, his eyes fixed themselves on her._

_She swallowed._

_Suddenly his eyes narrowed in anger. Isabelle staggered backwards, but Tristan had already lunged forward with an alarming speed, straight through her defences.

* * *

_

**Sparring and Arguing**

Tristan lay sprawled on his back, panting heavily. There was hardly a muscle left in his body that didn't hurt. Gods, the girl had been right a few months ago when she'd told him smugly that she was fast and cheated.

By the stinging of several parts of his skin he deducted he had a dozen scratch marks, one of which was still oozing blood. Grimacing, he moved his left hand on which she had left a bite mark. When he took a deep breath his ribs protested vehemently.

To add insult to injury, a drop of rain fell on his nose, instantly followed by many others, but Tristan didn't feel like moving, not even when the clouds burst open and water poured down on him.

Isabelle wasn't moving either. She was lying next to him, about two feet away, sprawled on her back like he was. He could hear her strained breathing.

When he had told her she had some things to say to him he had not expected her to take a swing at him, but he had to admit there was something relieving in having a good fight to get out of the way that which had stood between them. He had, of course, not expected her to think the same way, but he wasn't complaining. It were his ribs that were complaining. He remembered the elbow she'd planted there with vicious enthusiasm well.

He'd caught her shoulders in a strong grip after she'd punched him, but somehow she'd slipped away, delivering another blow to his jaw. Her feet in a slightly spread stance, her fists in front of her face, and a provocative glint in her eyes, she'd challenged him and he had picked up the gauntlet.

She'd fought with everything she had, compensating his greater height and strength with agility and tricks. Very mean tricks. Tristan had felt his temper rise and stopped holding back. His revenge for his bruised jaw had knocked her to the ground, but she'd rolled over, jumping to her feet immediately, though she'd had a slightly disbelieving expression on her face.

After that, he'd fought a wildcat. He'd had her pinned to the ground three times, but three times she'd wriggled out from under him when he was distracted by either her nails or her teeth.

It had ended when she'd kicked his legs out from under him and he had dragged her down with him, both of them landing flat on their back, knocking the wind out of them. He was still lying in the same position, now being pounded with rain.

Tristan was surprised to hear a chuckle coming from his left, followed by a snort of laughter. He looked at her to see her open her mouth wide to catch rain drops. She was already soaked, as he was. Water trailed down her face in rivulets.

She swallowed and turned on her side, giving him a somewhat shy grin. "Thanks, Tristan," she said and patted him on his chest. Slowly, and moaning quietly, she scrambled to her feet and hobbled off, pressing a hand against her side while swearing under her breath.

Tristan watched her go.

Suddenly it hit him that he had made a mistake. She'd seen his offer to have a go at him as an apology to her. It _was_ an apology of some sort, though he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud, but not the sort she thought it was. Tristan sat up straight when he realised their fight had meant closure to Isabelle. They had solved their differences, in a more than direct way, and that was it. For her.

It was not what he had intended. He wasn't even sure what his intentions were when he'd seen her shooting arrows at her target. Before he knew it he'd moved to stand behind her, observing her shot.

What the hell had he been thinking? That the smiles she gave Gawain would instantly be turned to him? Tristan growled in frustration. When had he become such a fool?

He'd lost her. He'd pushed her away. She'd given herself to him freely and without inhibition, a rare gift from someone who'd been through what she had, and he had thrown it into her face with a sneer instead of cherishing it.

Tristan groaned and got up from the ground, threading his fingers through his matted hair.

All because he was afraid to be weak. Because he was afraid to lose the clarity of his existence. He would _never_ admit it, but she'd unnerved him. He'd unnerved himself.

Desire he could handle, but when she'd pulled him down on her bed, she'd pulled him into something more. Something very unfamiliar. Something in which his life would not be as simple and clear-cut as it was, something he did not have control over.

He'd spent fifteen years keeping as much of his life under control as he could. He'd become the best archer of the knights and had perfected his skill with his blade until he needed only one or two strikes to bring down an enemy. When he held his blade in his hand, he held his fate in his hand.

He'd not had any friends with him when he left Sarmatia and he'd quickly begun to see the need to keep his distance, after watching one half of a twin die of an infected wound and his grieving brother run carelessly into battle, getting the death he asked for.

Tristan despised – no, _hated_ not having control over himself and _she_ – she had made him feel as if he were adrift. He'd reacted in the only way he knew, lashing out, bringing his life back under control, thereby mercilessly hurting the woman who had undermined his determination.

It had never happened to him before. He'd always made it perfectly clear beforehand to any other woman he'd been with that he was not looking for anything more than a tumble. It hadn't stopped many of them, although it did cause problems sometimes afterwards when he stopped showing interest, problems he was trying to avoid in the first place. He'd never felt guilty. But now…

Regret? Was that what he was feeling? How could it? He had what he wanted, didn't he? He'd achieved his goal. Then why had he confronted her only a few moments ago? Why did he want to go after her right now?

Tristan stood in doubt a few heartbeats, before he took off, heading Isabelle's way.

It was still morning and the streaming rain had driven the fort's residents off the streets. He spotted Isabelle's figure crossing the courtyard, not bothered in the least at getting drenched. Quickly he went after her.

Isabelle leaped over a puddle, wincing slightly when she landed, and stopped under the shelter of the cloth spread out between the Tavern and the next building, which usually provided customers with shade, but which now looked about to collapse under the weight of the water gathering on top of it.

Vanora waggled outside with a broom in her hand and began poking the lumps in the cloth. Water splashed on the ground in every direction. Isabelle laughed and wrung out her hair before following Vanora inside.

Tristan went after her and stepped into the Tavern, where he stopped in his tracks.

He'd lost.

Isabelle had seated herself astride on a bench next to Gawain, who gingerly touched a forming bruise on her jaw, inquiring half-angry what happened to her.

She grinned and shook her wet hair from her eyes. "It was a good fight."

Gawain tilted her head tenderly to the side and commented, "It was a good punch."

Isabelle snorted. "It should be. It was Tristan's."

Tristan tensed when his name left her lips. Gawain's eyes left Isabelle's face and moved to his, while he still stood in the entrance. He nodded at the younger knight and walked to an empty table across the room with a hint of a limp, planting himself slowly on a bench.

"It looks like you delivered a good punch as well," he heard Gawain say, his voice barely disguising his amusement.

"Aye," Isabelle agreed proudly, "as I said, it was a good fight."

Tristan couldn't help but stare at her as she let Gawain caress her face, but his gaze did not seem to bother her, not anymore. It felt as if she'd slipped away from him and he clenched and unclenched his hands helplessly in response.

He blinked when he suddenly found a rotund belly in front of him and looked up to Vanora's face. "Don't," she said.

He bristled. "What?"

"You know what I mean," she pressed.

Tristan leaned back, with his elbows on the table behind him. "Why don't you explain it?" he hissed.

Vanora put her hands on her hips. "Don't think you can intimidate me, Tristan!" she hissed back. "I see the way you look at her. Don't."

"Don't meddle in things you know nothing of," he growled at her.

"Know nothing of?" she repeated incredulously. "I know more of Isabelle's feelings than you do. Than you deserve to know," she added. "You've done this to other women. A barmaid, a laundress, even merchant's daughters, but Isabelle? That was different. You gained her trust when she was ill and vulnerable from fever. I don't pretend to know your motives, but you misused and exploited her faith in you."

To be scolded by Bors's lover was more than he could bear right now. "It was not exploitation!" he snarled. It was self-protection. But he could not say that aloud.

"I don't know what it was then," Vanora replied, "but it cost you her trust."

"I am well aware of that, Vanora." More than aware of. It was flaunted right in front of him, his mistakes and their consequences. But he could not say that aloud.

"Therefore I say: don't."

"Don't what, woman?"

"Don't try to take her away from Gawain," she answered softly. She chewed on her lip, measuring him with her eyes. "You should know that she was torn between you and him before you had lain together. I told her that when the time came she would know what to do. But you made that choice for her, Tristan. Now, I have no idea what she would've done if you hadn't decided for her, but with what you did you lost her trust and you pushed her straight into Gawain's arms."

"Don't you think I know that?" Tristan spat out, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

"Then leave her there," Vanora gently said. "She's happy there. Step back."

Briefly she placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, before she left him.

* * *

Isabelle was quite busy. Her employer, Berwyn, had left three days ago to go to Eboracum and this was the first time she was alone in his shop. Silently she prayed that she would not stuff up. 

Berwyn sold a myriad of things. Whatever he came across on his journeys and thought would sell well in the fort he would bring back with him.

So far she had sold four needles, five reels of yarn, a large wooden ladle, a few candles, two simple metal clasps with which to fasten a cloak, and a small engraved box made of yew.

She was rather proud of that last sell, because she had sold it for a price that was much higher than Berwyn had estimated. She hoped he would be pleased.

Oona came to visit her in the shop. She had taken the job as a laundress and had agreed to help Vanora in the tavern two nights a week. She told Isabelle that Dilys worked with Celia as a chambermaid.

"Come tonight," Oona begged. "To the Tavern. See me work."

"Fine, I will come to see you fight off all those eager men."

"Vanora says I must hit the knights. She says they listen to force only."

"Vanora should know," Isabelle chuckled.

A loud clearing of the throat made the two women look at the entrance. Galahad and Gawain stood side by side. "We wish to purchase an item," Galahad announced pompously.

"Oh, I will go," Oona said. "Tonight?" she asked Isabelle.

"Aye, I'll come tonight."

Oona smiled and inclined her head to the two knights when she hurried past them.

"Oona!" Galahad called after her. She turned around. "Will you be working tonight?"

She nodded, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks and down into her neckline when the handsome knight smiled dashingly at her.

Galahad nodded back. "Well, I'll see you tonight then. Be sure to stop by our table."

"I will," Oona answered.

When she had exited, Galahad turned back to find two raised eyebrows waiting for him, a blond one and a brown one. "What?" he asked innocently.

"Are you flirting with her?" Isabelle inquired, folding her arms and leaning her backside against the table behind her.

Galahad flashed her a charming grin. "Aren't you a tad young to be acting as my mother?"

"Fine," Gawain intervened. "Are you flirting with her?"

"You're only three years older than I am," Galahad pointed out to his friend. "Not exactly the right age to be my _mother_ as well."

Gawain looked insulted.

"What happened to Rhian, the baker's daughter?" Isabelle demanded.

Galahad scowled. "She wanted to marry."

"You can't marry," his friend stated.

"My point exactly. But you try telling her that!" Galahad exclaimed. "She says I have taken her dignity as well as her virginity."

"Is she with child?" Gawain asked out of nowhere.

Galahad's face managed to go from pale to bright red to pale again in a heartbeat. "What?" he wheezed.

"It's just that Vanora always has her moments when she's carrying a child," Gawain clarified. "Wanting to marry."

"A child?" Galahad sputtered. "Surely not. Don't women have – Don't you have ways to avoid that…predicament?" he asked, turning to Isabelle.

"Of course," she answered, snorting disapprovingly at his choice of words, "but I don't know if she's taken precautions. You've never asked?"

Galahad shook his head, looking increasingly distressed.

"You don't want a child?" she continued.

"No! Well, I do, but not now and not – not…"

"Not with someone who is only a temporary distraction," she finished his sentence. "You should've thought of that before you took her dignity and virginity."

"Oh gods," the youngest knight groaned. "What do I do now?"

Gawain snorted. "You stop being a whining, dramatic ass, that's what you do. Go to that girl and find out if she truly is with child. If not, you explain yourself to her and finish it properly. And _then_ you may flirt with Oona," he barked.

Galahad flared up. "Don't tell me what to do!"

"_Now_," Gawain threatened.

Galahad mumbled a few very impolite things in Sarmatian and stormed off. Gawain watched him go, but had the grace not to start chuckling until his friend was out of earshot. He looked at Isabelle, opening his mouth to make a comment, but snapped it shut at the sight of her expression.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replied with a false smile.

"Tell me."

"Oh, _now_ you start demanding answers," she huffed.

"Isabelle…"

"Fine," she snapped and glared at him, but it was not anger he saw in her eyes, but doubt and insecurity. "Will you finish it properly with _me_ when I am no longer a pleasant distraction?"

Gawain looked as if one of his axes had fallen on his head. "What?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about! I know how many women you've had. The barmaids talk and I was one of them for a while. And you – you certainly seem to know well how to untie yourself from a woman."

The knight in front of her didn't know what hit him. "Where is this coming from?" he demanded bewildered. "All because I told Galahad to handle his affairs? Would you rather have that girl find out from someone else he's no longer interested?"

"No," she admitted reluctantly. "But that's not my point. I meant – "

"Your point was me," he interrupted her, placing a hand on each side of her on the table she was leaning against and fixing her with a dark blue gaze. "Aye, I've had many women and I've always loved the feel of one next to me, I won't deny that. I haven't turned down many offers from a pretty face, but that's all they were. A pretty face, a warm body to hold on to. Something other than your weapons or the dead body of yet another one of your friends."

"I –"

"Comfort, Isabelle," he continued roughly. "That's what they offered. And you know very well that you are not about comfort."

"Do I?" she asked timidly, her eyes cast down. The intensity of his proximity was overwhelming. "I've never – feelings – before – strange to me – don't know – care and want and worry…" She studied her toes, her scrambled confession leaving her to feel extremely vulnerable, especially because his nose was only two inches away from her own.

Gawain searched for her eyes with his own. Reluctantly she looked up. "I'm rather new to this too," he said, "but I can tell the difference. Can't you?"

Isabelle shrugged. "When you said to Galahad – I just thought – it hit me that –"

He chuckled softly. "You amaze me every time I see you, showing me sides of you I've never seen before. Bashful? Very intriguing."

"Stop that," she admonished him half-heartedly.

Gawain's hands left the table, sliding up her hips. His eyes turned flirtatious. "On one condition," he cajoled.

"Which is?" she asked, gaze fixed firmly on his mouth and the corner of which was now slowly curling up.

"Guess," he answered and closed the remaining distance to her lips.

* * *

The following days were drowned in rain. Arthur and the knights had left again, on a patrol this time. When Berwyn returned from Eboracum he was in a very good mood. Thanks to Isabelle's sell of the yew box and the several rolls of cloth he had brought for the seamstress he'd made a generous profit. After paying Isabelle, he'd given her a few days off. 

Without the companionship of the knights she had little to do, save for bothering Oona while she was doing laundry and bothering Kay in his smithy, though neither of them seemed to mind.

She had seen little of Claire as her chores took up most of her time. Neither did she see Andrivete, who seemed to have locked herself in her rooms to avoid her former lover.

After a week of rain, thunder, and meagre bright periods combined with utter boredom Isabelle felt ready to kill someone just to liven things up. Vanora chuckled when the younger woman visited her in the Tavern. "It's hard to wait for news, isn't it?" she remarked knowingly.

"It's torture," Isabelle agreed. "And Berwyn can manage his shop perfectly on his own when he's here. All I have to do is polish and clean his goods, naming the price he wants for them. I have the whole afternoon to myself."

"Worrying over a certain knight?"

"Wondering if a Woad has stuck his blade between his ribs, aye," Isabelle nodded. "How do you do it, Vanora? And for so long."

"There is nothing you can do but wait," Vanora answered. "And worry. Pray that he comes back to you." She lifted the toddler on her hip, number Ten. "When he's returned, you close your eyes when you see new cuts and bruises, wishing them away, hoping that the things he's lived through this time won't have him thrashing in his bed to escape the nightmares."

Isabelle was silent.

Vanora smiled grimly. "It's not only the soldiers who lead a hard life. Here, hold this wee troublemaker." She handed Ten to Isabelle. "Keep him occupied for a moment."

Ten gave Isabelle a gooey smile and grabbed a handful of hair with chubby little fingers, studying it with big eyes, while his mother set to washing tankards and mugs.

She looked up over Isabelle's shoulder and nodded for Isabelle to turn around. Andrivete stood in the courtyard. "I know Kay disagrees loudly with me," she said, "but Andrivete's reasons for leaving with Julius Septimus are not without sense."

They looked at the tall woman, who suddenly and noticeably stiffened when the even taller blacksmith meandered across the courtyard, avoiding large puddles of rain. Kay nodded curtly and walked past her.

Andrivete spun around and called after him, making him turn and walk back to her, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

"Oh no," Vanora sighed. "There they go again."

Their noses barely three inches apart, Kay and Andrivete spoke heatedly to each other, making snappy gestures with their hands, completely unaware of the fact that they were being watched.

"She hurt him, didn't she?" Isabelle mumbled.

"Aye," Vanora concurred, "though he'll never admit it." She shook her head. "They never admit to anything, not one of them. Bottle it all up inside, until they explode and fight someone or kill something. Men!" She threw another tankard in her washing water.

Kay now seemed to have shut Andrivete up and stalked away, cursing loudly when water splashed into his boots when he stamped into a puddle.

Andrivete idly smoothened her gown and cloak, taking in her surroundings. When she spotted the two women she straightened her shoulders. Isabelle thought she would walk away, but instead she headed towards the Tavern. "Vanora," she smiled. "I haven't even spoken to you yet. I'm deeply ashamed."

"You've had a lot on your mind," Vanora answered.

"You could say that." Andrivete glanced at the tot in Isabelle's arms. "Yours?"

"No, mine," Vanora answered.

"And Bors's?"

"Aye."

"You haven't left him for Lancelot then? I recall him boasting about it."

Vanora laughed. "He still boasts."

"That man of yours is easy to rile," Andrivete nodded. "And Lancelot always had an unhealthy need for getting under people's skin."

Isabelle snorted loudly. "That he has."

Andrivete raised a copper-coloured eyebrow. Her eyes, which were of a greyish green colour, glided over Isabelle's face. Their slanted shape and the high cheekbones under them gave her the appearance of a cat. "You're a friend of Arthur's family, aren't you?"

"Aye, I am." The lie slid off her tongue easily.

"Yes, Celia told me," Andrivete drawled. "And you're a…_friend_ of Kay's?"

Isabelle's own brown eyebrow quirked to match the expression of the older woman. There'd been more than a slight hint of possessiveness in her voice. "Aye, Kay and I get along well," Isabelle answered. "Very well."

"A bit young, aren't you?"

"Oh, stop that, you two!" Vanora exclaimed exasperatedly. "Isabelle is not sharing Kay's bed and if you still want him, Andrivete, which I can tell from the fire shooting out of your eyes, go and claim him! Isabelle has had her share of Sarmatian men already!"

"Vanora!" Isabelle gasped.

The Thracian woman too looked shocked. "I'd forgotten how candidly folk spoke around here."

"You best remember it soon," Vanora advised, pointing a tankard dripping with water in her direction. "Kay is not a Roman full of fancy manners and polished words."

A longing smile appeared on Andrivete's face. "That I remember."

Isabelle couldn't help herself. "Why did you leave him?"

Andrivete blinked. Clearly she hadn't expected such a question. "Why? I'm not sure – no, I suppose it's my turn to be candid now. I was afraid. In one hand I had Julius and the safe, protected life he offered me, free of worry, free of toil. In the other hand there was Kay, who still had five years of service ahead of him. Five years of this place, five years of blood, war, death… Five years in which I could lose him to the sword of a Briton. And then what? I had no skills with which I could make a living if something should happen to him. He could not marry me, I would not have the protection of his name as his widow."

Vanora nodded. "It's a risk."

"I didn't always think of it that way," Andrivete continued, almost defensively. "In the beginning, when we'd just become lovers, I was making plans to stay here."

"What happened?" Isabelle asked.

"Kay was wounded," she answered. "That scar on his face, he was nearly killed that time. The healer only barely managed to save his eye, but that was not his most serious injury. A Woad had driven a sword into his side. We had all given him up, but somehow the blade must have missed his organs, because he recovered. I think that was the only time Julius became suspicious, because I could not bring myself to leave Kay's bed. And from that moment on I was afraid."

"So you chose Julius Septimus and left."

"Yes, I left him," Andrivete said. "It's rather funny, actually," she added with a melancholy grin. "Unlike Julius and Gervasius – my late husband – he was the only one I couldn't wrap around my little finger. The only one who refused to be manipulated. Hard-headed, stubborn man. Oh, how I wanted him for my own." She snorted. "And oh, how I fooled myself into thinking_ I_ was seducing _him_, but it was always on his terms. It annoyed me to no end and yet I couldn't stay away. I couldn't maintain the role of a sophisticated Roman woman when I was with him. He would not allow it. Maybe that scared me as well," she admitted. She paused and added, "I never expected to see him again."

"He said the exact same thing," Isabelle told her.

"Second chances don't come around that often," Vanora stated.

Andrivete shook her head. "Doesn't matter. Ten years stand between us now. I don't know what I was thinking, coming _here_."

"Ten years is not a lifetime," Vanora replied shrewdly.

"Must you insist on playing matchmaker?" the older woman cried out.

"She must," Isabelle answered dryly. "You'd better do as she says."

Andrivete turned her head, staring outside. "What's the use? He'll never forgive me."


	37. End of Summer

**A/N: Hi there! Lots of thanks to everyone who reviewed! This chapter is really one half of a longer one, but which turned out much too long, so I cut it in two. The next 'half' should be up soon. Enjoy!**

**Love, WoE

* * *

**

End of Summer

"Kay?"

"Hmm?"

"Kay!"

"What?"

"Are you even listening to me?" Isabelle asked exasperatedly.

"Of course I'm not listening to you. You've been twittering endlessly."

"I am _not_ twittering endlessly!"

"Have you stopped talking since you came here?"

"What I said was important!"

"Too important to capture in a few short sentences?"

"Aye!"

"There you go. Endless twittering."

"What? That doesn't even make sense!"

"Is there a point to this conversation?" Gawain interrupted in a bored fashion.

"We are establishing the fact that Isabelle twitters incessantly."

"Such long words, Kay," Isabelle drawled. "Don't strain yourself."

"You've noticed this dagger in my hand, love?" Kay inquired pleasantly, waving his newly fabricated dagger at her.

"I'm very fond of you too. Kiss?"

"No," Gawain answered for the blacksmith.

Kay grinned. "Best not do that. You would leave him for me immediately. He knows he's nothing compared to me."

"Spare me!" Gawain snorted. "You're old and wrinkly. You're no competition at all."

"Kay is not old," Isabelle defended him. "He's…seasoned."

The blacksmith cast his eyes heavenwards. "You haven't mastered the art of flattery yet, I see."

"Do forgive me," Isabelle apologised. "Now what I was saying was I think you should talk to Andrivete."

Rolling his eyes, Kay put down the cloth which he'd been oiling the dagger with and leaned his chin in his hand. "And why would I want to do that?"

Isabelle bristled. "For a middle-aged man you do behave rather like a petulant child!"

"He always did have a nasty temper," Gawain chipped in, flashing his friend a wide grin in response to the glare he received.

"Listen, Kay," Isabelle tried again. "All I'm saying is that you should talk to her. She's here and I don't think she'll be going away anytime soon. I don't believe you if you say you have no questions for her."

"Questions or no questions, I don't need to talk to her. I know enough!" Kay snapped, his infamous temper flaring up.

Isabelle exhaled forcefully in agitation. "Vanora was right! Keeping it all bottled up inside until you explode, don't you?"

Kay's eyes flashed in anger. "I won't explode!" he bellowed, rising from his seat. "I don't CARE enough to explode!" He turned on his heels and marched into his smithy, the door closing behind him with a wall-shaking bang.

"Well, that's clear then," Gawain remarked. "He doesn't care."

* * *

The following week Isabelle saw little of Kay, mainly because he didn't leave his smithy and she didn't dare go there. Though Arthur had sent Gawain and the other knights on small patrol missions, she wasn't lonely. The last harvests were being brought in and the fort and the people living near it were preparing to celebrate. 

There was an excited buzzing around the fort and everywhere the same delicious smells floated in the air. Roasted meat, baked apples, mulled mead; it was enough to make Isabelle walk around the fort with a rumbling stomach all day.

After her morning chores with Berwyn the trader Isabelle helped Vanora keeping her children occupied while the barmaid cut up apples and ground nuts for cakes.

"It's not a large feast," Vanora shrugged. "Not like the feasts when the harvests begin."

"I didn't see anything of such a feast," Isabelle frowned.

Vanora slapped the younger woman's hand when it tried to snatch another slice of apple from the pile that was already rubbed in with spices. "Of course you didn't," she said. "You were down south with the men, doing heaven knows what."

"Oh," Isabelle mumbled.

"Since I'm the only one with what slightly resembles a proper household, I'm the one who invites a group of friends for a traditional meal and we have a drink and a laugh afterwards." Vanora paused her cutting and frowned. "Which reminds me to tell Bors off for not picking up that mead the widow Mallt insists on bringing every year. She's a lovely old woman, but as weak as a newborn babe. She can't possibly bring that barrel here herself."

"The widow Mallt?" Isabelle repeated. "Who's that?"

"She's the great-aunt of a cousin of mine, but she hardly has any family left. She could do with a bit of pampering once in a while," Vanora answered. "I've invited those women Arthur brought up here as well."

"Oona and Dilys?"

"Aye, they need a few acquaintances around here and the people around here need to know they have acquaintances. It's not good for them to be alone."

"Who else is coming?" Isabelle asked casually.

"The men, of course. Arthur usually shows up too for a while. Kay always graces us with his loud presence – the children love him. I'm thinking of inviting Andriv– "

With a sharp look Vanora interpreted Isabelle's indifferent expression correctly. "Goodness, _men_! Gawain didn't mention it to you, did he? I _told_ him not to forget to tell you about the harvest meal. You can't leave anything to them. Of course I want you to come too, you daft girl. Now stop pouting and tell me what you think about inviting Andrivete too."

Isabelle chuckled. "Thank you, I'd love to come. And about Andrivete, I've tried to talk to Kay, but that didn't go too well."

"You can't talk to Kay," Vanora sighed, rolling her eyes. "He never listens to reason. I suspect the man has no ears. You have to shove it under his nose to get him to do anything."

"And you think shoving Andrivete under his nose at your meal will do any good?"

"She's not leaving and nor is he," Vanora shrugged. "They are going to have to start speaking to each other eventually."

"Well, it's your party," Isabelle said hesitantly. "But I can already see lots of pottery flying."

"As long as Bors and the rest are there to keep him a bit distracted, all will go well," Vanora predicted.

* * *

Of course, to add more tension to an already strained situation, it was unclear whether the knights would actually _be_ at the fort to enjoy the harvest meal. Isabelle had an ominous feeling about the whole affair, but fortunately it didn't come true. 

Only an hour before dusk Arthur and the knights rode through the gate. The tight knot which her stomach turned into every time Gawain left the fort loosened when he winked at her and followed Arthur inside the main quarters.

Isabelle stopped wringing her hands and walked back to Vanora's home. It was unusual for Arthur to insist on a meeting right after he and his knights had returned, but not unheard of. Though it did signal something was not right.

At Vanora's Isabelle found four of her ten children playing outside, including Seven, who waved at her with enthusiasm. With an indulgent grin Isabelle ruffled the auburn hair of the six-year-old girl, from whose mouth immediately burst forth a flood of information about where she'd been and all the secret things and places she'd found.

Isabelle listened for a while, trying to appear serious and attempting not to chuckle, before she said she had to go inside to help Vanora, who filled her arms with mugs and told her to start putting everything on the table outside.

Obediently Isabelle walked in and out of the little house several times, while Vanora finished the last of the dishes she had prepared with her oldest daughter, Two.

Bors was the first to arrive and Vanora sent him away again for a visit to the bathhouse. He knew better than to argue. Not long after Kay entered his friends' home, ducking to get through the door. He had a child on his back and one hanging on to a leg. He looked longingly at Vanora's apple cake while he plucked the children still clinging to him from his leg and back and put them on the ground. Their mother shooed them away and called for another son after Kay had given her a kiss.

"One!" she yelled.

The thirteen-year-old boy stuck his head inside. "Aye, Ma?"

"Go and get the widow Mallt. I don't want her to get lost."

"Aye, Ma."

Never having been in Vanora's house, Isabelle stood a little to the side, enjoying the bustling feel of the place, which was enhanced by Kay squeezing her shoulder in a friendly manner to tell her he wasn't angry with her.

She smiled relieved at him.

Vanora sighed exasperatedly when a wave of children spilled into the house. "How am I supposed to get everything done?" she grumbled. "Keep them busy for a while, Kay."

The blacksmith stepped outside again, ushering the boys and girls out with him, and soon his thundering voice informed the children that he was coming to get them. Loud and excited screaming was their instant response.

While Isabelle helped Vanora putting everything out on the table, the first guests began to drop in. The widow Mallt, Oona and Dilys, and two people Isabelle didn't know but who turned out to be relatives of Vanora.

Bors returned, much cleaner and with Dagonet and Tristan, managing to greet his lover before several of his children jumped on top of him. Kay came marching around the corner, holding two boys like sacks of flour under his arms. He dropped them rather unceremoniously to greet the three knights.

Vanora set Bors, Kay, and Dagonet to work and turned to Tristan. "Good of you to come."

Tristan's black eyebrow shot up. "You left me no room to refuse."

"Indeed I didn't," Vanora answered. "Help yourself," she added, waving at the loaded table. She spotted a grubby child's hand reaching for the fruit on the table and gave it a smack. "Go wash, Five," she ordered.

"But, Ma," the boy whined, only to be grabbed by the scruff of his neck by his mother, who dragged him inside the house.

Isabelle grinned after them, before she turned to Tristan, who gave her a nod. "Isabelle."

"Tristan," she nodded back. She handed him a mug, which he accepted with another nod.

Though things were still quite formal between them, their fight had relieved Isabelle of a great deal of tension. It was as Vanora had said: it had cost her a friendship, but Isabelle felt that she could be at peace with it now. And in a way she was grateful to Tristan for confronting her.

The scout took a swig from the mug Isabelle had given him. He paused and his face contorted when he swallowed it. After a cough, he deducted, "The widow Mallt's mead."

"Aye," Isabelle confirmed, nonplussed.

"Don't give that to anyone unless they're already drunk." Tristan put his mug on the table and grabbed an apple, sauntering off to find a quiet place.

Hesitantly, Isabelle picked up Tristan's mug and smelled the liquid suspiciously. She took a sip and winced. She wasn't sure what the widow had done to it, but it certainly did not taste the way mead should taste.

Casually she emptied the mug under the table.

"What on earth are you doing?" an amused voice asked behind her.

Isabelle whirled around, cheeks flaming, and cleared her throat when she found Gawain watching her with folded arms, trying to contain his laughter.

"Nothing," she squeaked guiltily. "It was the widow Mallt's mead," she added.

"Ah, well, that explains everything," Gawain shrugged.

"Tristan told me not to give it to anyone who isn't already inebriated."

"So you're on speaking terms again?" Gawain inquired casually, examining Vanora's food with interest.

"Aye, I suppose," Isabelle said.

"Good." He looked up. "You shouldn't be at odds with someone in a place as small as this. Doesn't work."

"Speaking of odd," Isabelle quickly interjected. "Why did Arthur want to see you in the Hall?"

Gawain made a grumbling sound. "Saxons. Usually they retreat back over the sea at the end of the summer, but their attacks keep on coming. Arthur is worried they might stay on the island during the winter. They'll have no other choice if they linger much longer; the sea will be too rough for their ships."

Isabelle wondered if she would ever get used to the nagging worry that haunted her.

Gawain must have noticed it, because he said," Don't worry, we can keep them at bay."

Isabelle sighed and closed her eyes. "I thought winter was supposed to be a calmer period."

The feel of Gawain's rough hand on her cheek made her open her eyes again. "I've survived this long, haven't I?" he said softly. "Just a few months."

She nodded, comforted by the warm depths of his voice. "A few more months."

Her hand fisted itself tightly in his tunic when he bent forward to kiss her. He lifted his head to look her in the eye. "No more worries now. Vanora's harvest meal is always a memorable event. You should enjoy it."

She smiled and slid her arms around his neck. "Very well then," she said slowly, determinedly pushing any lingering dark thoughts to the back of her head. "I know what I'd like to enjoy first."

"Teasing me, eh?"

"What if I am?"

"I should warn you not to play with fire."

Isabelle gave him a languid smile. "Who cares about a few blisters?"

Gawain's eyes turned a darker shade of blue. The kiss with which he seared her lips indeed had her cheeks burn like fire.

"Have pity on my innocent eyes," a voice drawled. "I beg you."

"Lancelot..."

"Lovely to see you too, Isabelle."

"Here, have some mead," Isabelle offered sweetly, pouring some of the widow Mallt's brewing into a mug. She handed it to Lancelot, sent a smile to the newly arrived Galahad, and made herself scarce, leaving the three men slightly confused.

At a safe distance she looked back just in time to see Lancelot's disgusted face, while Galahad and Gawain stood beside him, smirking.

Vanora came outside with the last of her treats and her guests gathered around the table. Bors slid an arm around his lover and looked proudly at her.

Isabelle smiled. There was a peaceful atmosphere that was slowly seeping into her being. She sensed Gawain behind her and leaned backwards against him. He rested his hand on her hip and his chin on her head. For a moment she didn't have a care in the world.


	38. Relentless

**A/N: Josje, Priestess (No credit for me, Lancelot just _is_ great!), Randomisation, Furibondo & Arleena ( your question will be answered in this chapter :) ), la argentinita, Saxongirl345, Poseidon's Chickadee (love your name and reading your thoughts as you read my story!) and LegolasIsMine: Huge thanks for reviewing. You guys make my day!**

**Speaking of huge... 'part 2' turned out longer than planned as well, but I couldn't find a place to cut it in half, so here it is, in one big chunk. Good luck getting to the end of it!**

**Love, WoE

* * *

**

Relentless

Unfortunately the peacefulness did not last, as Andrivete chose to enter that moment. Kay, standing to Isabelle and Gawain's left, immediately tensed up. Dagonet quickly placed a hand on his shoulder and Vanora rushed to greet the Thracian woman.

The guests dispersed a little, chatting in smaller groups while choosing from the wide selection on the table. The knights took turns in keeping Kay's attention diverted, which worked partly. The blacksmith refrained from making an angry outburst, but his icy blue eyes were fixed firmly on his former lover.

Andrivete, though she tried to hide it, was thoroughly unnerved by Kay's gaze. The two kept a solid distance between each other, but their attempt did nothing to mask the fact that they were exceptionally aware of the other.

While she enjoyed Vanora's food and chatted with Oona and Dilys, Isabelle noticed how they seemed to dance around each other. Covert glances from Andrivete and shameless stares from Kay, the way their bodies seemed to turn towards each other, despite the distance between them, and a subtle but nevertheless very present tension that made even Isabelle's hair stand on end.

As nightfall settled over the fort and a few fire baskets were lit, Arthur joined his men in the festivities. The smaller children were put to bed, though small faces with shining eyes could be seen peeking out of the door every now and then.

Vanora was persuaded to sing and one of her relatives got out a fiddle, which prompted Galahad to ask Oona for a dance.

"I take it Rhian is not with child?" Isabelle mumbled to Gawain as she leaned a bit closer to him on the bench they'd found a seat on.

The blond man shook his head. "She's not. She just wanted more than he could give her."

"How is she?"

"I haven't seen her since."

They watched Galahad twirl Oona around with little regard to the music, though Oona did not seem to mind much. The easy and seemingly innocent charm that Galahad possessed was, though very different, as effective as Lancelot's.

"Game…" Isabelle mumbled as Galahad kissed Oona's fingers with a bow. He looked up, still bent over her hand, the fire reflecting in his green eyes. "Set…"

Galahad straightened himself and curled one corner of his mouth up, before displaying the smile that could make a Saxon army swoon. "And match," Isabelle concluded as large amounts of blood rushed to Oona's cheeks and she smiled back coyly, looking at him through her lashes.

"What are you jabbering on about?" Gawain asked bemused.

"Practising my observational skills," she answered airily.

"Naturally," he replied dryly. "Why did I ask?" His hand was playing mindlessly with a curl that had escaped from her loose braid, his arm resting around her shoulders, while they watched the others dance, drink, and laugh.

The music changed to a light, playful tune that seemed to be familiar with the knights, given their approving shouts. Kay surprised everybody by walking over to Andrivete and holding out his hand with an inscrutable face.

She hesitated a moment, searching his face for a clue about his unexpected behaviour, but placed her hand in his anyway, very much to the annoyance of Pia, the old nurse, who stood beside her mistress. Still wearing that indecipherable expression, Kay led Andrivete to a free spot, while she shot a few anxious looks up to him.

The blacksmith let go of her hand and waited expectantly. Andrivete seemed to gather her wits as well as her skirts and began to dance.

At first Isabelle thought it was a dance for Andrivete alone, until the music changed from light and playful to defying, causing the dancing woman to turn her attention to Kay, who still stood motionless. Andrivete moved a little closer to him, only to back away and twirl around, repeating it several times. She continued to dance and inch closer to Kay while the music began to swell and invoke expectations in the listeners.

They were not disappointed. Quick as lightning, belying his size, Kay shot forward and took Andrivete's waist with one arm the moment the music became heavier and more masculine. He walked her backwards, keeping an appropriate distance between their bodies while they floated through several difficult steps.

When a different note was added to the music though, Kay's hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, slowly moving upwards and pressing her closer to him, in perfect accordance with the seductiveness that seemed to seep into the music. Andrivete tilted her head upwards, locking Kay's gaze, which had long since lost its inscrutability and was openly enticing her.

Goosebumps appeared on her arms as Isabelle watched the silent exchange between the two, who moved even closer to each other. Isabelle held her breath as she saw Andrivete's lips part, hardly believing what she saw, only to let her breath escape all at once when again the music changed and Andrivete pushed Kay away, dancing and twisting to a suddenly elated and teasing tune, accompanied by loud whistles and cheers from the onlookers, who clearly had seen this dance a thousand times before.

Kay clapped his hands with a small smile, watching the woman in front of him give all she had. She was a sight to behold, her eyes sparkling, red hair flying round her head, turning the elegant hairdo into a mess, and her smile taking ten years off her face. She wasn't dancing for herself, or for the small crowd. She was dancing for Kay and everyone could see it.

Kay joined her again and together they finished the dance, which was picking up even more pace as the end neared. The pair let go of each other and Andrivete danced away, only to whirl back to Kay so fast her skirts billowed around her. Kay caught her and held her steady, ending her wild moves on the final note of the music.

Nose to nose they stood, panting heavily from the exercise, while their audience applauded and whistled. Kay took a step back and made a formal bow, which Andrivete answered with a small curtsey. He led her back to her place, ignoring the glare of her nurse, Pia.

"He doesn't care?" Isabelle mumbled to Gawain, referring to Kay's outburst some days ago.

"Obviously," Gawain nodded seriously. "Couldn't care less."

She snorted. "Is stubbornness a typical trait of Sarmatian men?"

"Oh, certainly," he answered. "We've cultivated and perfected it over the centuries."

"That I can see." She pointed her chin at Kay, who walked away from Andrivete, leaving her to stand next to Pia, looking rather lost.

"Ass," Gawain muttered.

"Will he ever come round?"

"In his own time," he shrugged. "Somewhere in the next century, probably."

* * *

It was very late when Vanora's guests sauntered back to their beds, chockfull of mead, spiced apples, cake, and meat. Isabelle thought she could never eat again, the way her stomach was threatening to explode. 

It was a clear night and thus quite chilly for the time of year. She shivered in her dress, sliding an arm around Gawain's waist after they'd said goodbye to Vanora and Bors.

Quickly hissing, "Don't you dare take advantage of her," to Galahad, who was taking Oona back to her room, she waved at Kay, who turned left to head back to his home.

Galahad winked and put his arm around Oona's shoulders. Isabelle pointed a threatening finger at him, receiving only a dashing smile in return, blinking white teeth visible even in the dark.

Gawain pulled her along with him. "Leave it," he said. "She's old and clever enough to know what she's doing."

"But she's not used to him and his devious mind," she protested.

"Something tells me that she will be," he replied dryly. "Very soon." He looked bemused at her. "Devious mind? You do use the strangest words sometimes."

"I do not. You all have devious minds."

"Now where did you get such a low opinion of us?"

"That was your own corrupting behaviour, I'm afraid," she sighed.

"Corrupting behaviour?" Gawain huffed indignantly. "I most certainly do not behave in a corrupting manner."

Isabelle grinned up at him. "But it's terribly funny to rile you."

"Minx."

They reached their rooms in the main building. Isabelle had not earned enough money yet to be able to afford a room or house in the fort.

"Goodnight," Gawain said. Isabelle tugged his head down and kissed him.

He opened the door for her and closed it behind her. Isabelle walked to her bed, but stopped in the middle of the room with a tiny smile. She looked over her shoulder at the closed door. Slowly she turned around and walked back, opening the unlocked door and stepping out in the hallway.

Gawain's room was only one door further. It wasn't locked either. He looked up from the bed, on which he was sitting to take his boots off. His tunic had already been disposed of.

Isabelle leaned her back against the door to close it and let her eyes glide over her knight's tightly muscled figure. He stopped unlacing his boots. When she began unlacing the front of her dress, he cleared his throat.

"You're sure?" he asked, his voice hoarser than usual. He rose from his bed in anticipation of her answer.

She steadily continued undoing the laces of her dress. "Aye. I'd love to be corrupted," she teased.

Gawain grinned in appreciation and returned the blatantly exploring look she'd given him only moments before while walking over to her. He stilled her hands with his own and slid them up to her neck, caressing her jaw with his thumbs while tangling his fingers in her hair.

He tilted her head and bent down to claim her lips, giving her no time to catch her breath before he deepened the kiss, pushing her against the door.

The first time he'd had her in his room like this had been a tumble between the sheets, between a knight and a wench. But this time, he vowed to himself, this time he would make love to her.

His hands continued with the laces where hers had left off and uncovered her shoulders. He abandoned her mouth for her neck and collar bone, chuckling when her head bumped against the door when she threw it back in response to his ministrations.

Taking another kiss from her, he walked her to his bed and undid the last laces, letting the dress pool around her feet, leaving her in only a shift. Isabelle's hands skimmed over his chest and arms, feeling and stroking and tracing muscles and bones under the skin. Suddenly she sat down on the bed and held out a hand to him.

Gawain kicked off his boots and took the hand she offered him, joining her on the bed.

* * *

Isabelle woke somewhere in the night with a pleasant drowsiness and stretched herself languidly. When she opened her eyes she found Gawain looking at her with such male smugness she gave him a half-hearted slap on his chest. "Stop that," she reproached him. 

He grabbed her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist before leaning over her completely with a content groan, kissing her senseless. Soon again they were lost in a tangle of limbs.

Sometime later, Isabelle was trying to catch her breath, resting her cheek on Gawain's shoulder. She buried her nose in his neck. Gawain had wrapped his arm around her, tracing her spine with a finger. Earlier he'd splayed his hand wide on the scars on her back in a protective gesture, mumbling, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she'd murmured back.

Now she gave a soft sigh and snuggled a little closer.

"Isabelle?"

"Hmpbrf?" she replied to his skin.

"Are you awake?"

"No. You've worn me out."

She felt laughter rumble in his chest for a moment. But his voice was serious when he spoke again. "You know that you're a freedwoman now, don't you?"

She lifted her head at the sound of his voice.

"A registered freedwoman," Gawain continued. "You have quite some options."

"I know," Isabelle replied, puzzled. "Arthur and Junius explained it all in Eboracum." His hand, still tracing her spine, was distracting her.

"You can do what you want. Live where you want."

"Aye, I know all that. Why?" she frowned. She propped herself on one elbow to be able to look him in the eye.

"What I mean is, I wouldn't try to stop you if wanted to go elsewhere," he carefully told her.

She grabbed his still caressing hand. "I don't want to leave, you dolt!" she answered vehemently.

Gawain grinned at her, relieved. "That pleases me," he said. "That pleases me very much."

* * *

Kay tapped his fingers on the table. He was annoyed. Folk might say he became annoyed rather easily, but personally, he disagreed. It was not his fault that some people got on his nerves. They should know better. 

For example, the barmaid he'd asked to bring him some ale still hadn't returned yet. She'd been gone for ages. It couldn't possibly be that difficult to fill a mug with a tankard, or even tap directly from the barrel.

Second example. He'd been trying to strike up a conversation with Isabelle, but all that daft girl was interested in was that blond, good-for-nothing, irritatingly cheerful lad next to her.

He sighed. Perhaps he shouldn't be cross with them. They were a nice-looking couple and obviously happy.

Kay turned his thoughts to someone else. That bloody woman. What the hell was she doing here anyway? It made no sense. Despite his protests that he didn't want to hear it, Vanora had provided him with the information that she'd lived in Rome as a high maintenance mistress until Septimus died, leaving her enough property to be able to live independently. Why on earth would she go to Thracia, marrying some pompous military officer? Thracia, of all places. Certainly, it was her homeland, but it had been torn apart by war for decades.

He ground his teeth. She'd made it perfectly clear to him that she didn't want to be near bloody borders, why then move into a full-fledged war? It just didn't make any _sense_. What was she not telling Arthur? And what made her come here, besides a woman's typical sentimental arguments of 'wanting to see her old home'. Kay snorted. Old home, his arse.

Gods, but the way she'd danced had reminded him of how things used to be. How well he'd known this woman, who he'd discovered by prying off all the airs and mannerisms she'd adopted. A woman who Julius Septimus had never seen.

He shook his head. He'd been wrong after all. When she'd had to choose, she'd chosen the airs and mannerisms he despised and left. He'd rather she'd stayed away.

A small, but strong hand covered his tapping fingers. "Just talk to her," Isabelle said, her attention diverted from Gawain for a moment. "This isn't doing you any good, either."

Kay tossed his head arrogantly. Nosy, know-it-all lass. She should mind her own business. He had nothing to talk about with that turncoat woman. The sooner she left, the better.

Finally, the barmaid with his ale arrived. He shot her a murderous glance, at which she gave an undignified squeak and hurried off.

Gawain got up, muttering something about stable chores, and kissed Isabelle goodbye. The silly smile on her face told Kay everything he needed to know. He let his eyes roam the nearly empty tavern, since it was only midday, and caught the scowling looks of two idle barmaids.

No doubt Isabelle was the subject of many a gossip, having taken away one of the most popular men of the fort. And what was being said probably wasn't very complimentary. The employees of Huw, the tavern owner, were a jealous lot. Kay wasn't worried about it; he didn't think Isabelle would have too much trouble handling a few cat claws.

"Are you still brooding?" the woman in question asked.

He growled.

"You're not scaring me."

"Be careful, imp. I might just wring your neck."

A brown eyebrow raised tauntingly. "I'm terrified. Please, o great and noble Kay, don't kill me with your abnormally large hands." She batted her eyelashes at him.

Kay tried to suppress a chuckle, glaring at her. He placed said hands on the table and rose slowly to his feet, looming over the table. "I'll leave you to find someone else to mock, before I might do something I will regret."

The grin that refused to leave her face only made him angrier.

He headed back to his smithy, where at least he could brood without being bothered. He couldn't have been there for more than half an hour, though, when the door to his smithy swung open and _she_ filled the doorway.

Kay quickly sent a plea to his gods, who were really trying his patience today, considered plainly ignoring her, but decided against it. "What do you want?" he snapped.

Andrivete's eyes narrowed. "I've had enough of you!" she snapped back.

He smirked in the way he knew would make her furious. "Aye, I know. You had enough of me ten years ago, didn't you?"

It still worked, after all this time. He could practically see her hackles rising. If he pushed her a little further, she would start fuming. For now, she appeared to settle for insults.

"You arrogant, self-righteous bastard!" she hissed, clenching her fists. "I don't know why I even bother with you!"

"Why _do _you bother with me then? I can assure you that your efforts are not appreciated. Why did you bother coming back to Hadrian's Wall? I'm not the only one who's curious about that."

Andrivete's face, already white with anger, paled even further. "That's none of your business."

"Since you're harassing me, I think I have a right to know," he replied, folding his arms.

"Harassing?" she exclaimed, her voice raising about an octave. "You – you – "

He cut her off. "Some scandal?" he wondered, tapping his chin with a finger. "That wouldn't surprise me. Of maybe you just had enough of your Thracian husband?"

She exploded, leaping towards him to lash out. Kay easily caught her wrists, tightening his grip when she tried to wrench herself loose.

"Don't you dare talk about Gervasius like that!" she snarled. "He was a good man and I loved him."

"As much as you said you loved me?" he sneered. "I pity the man."

She stood still as a stone, staring at him in disbelief, before she blinked and regained her senses, renewing her struggle to break free. "I hate you!" she spat at him. "I hate you! I'm glad you proved my decision to leave you right!"

Instantly she knew she'd pushed him too far, fearing for a moment that their argument would turn violent as his face contorted in rage. He pulled her closer by her wrists, hissing in her face, "I don't know why _I_ ever bothered with a lying Roman snake." Pushing her away from him, he barked, "Get out!"

She rubbed her throbbing wrists, lingering. He was a sight to behold when truly furious. Almost impossible to turn away from, though it probably was better for her health.

_Not like this_, was all she could suddenly think about, regretting their fight. But Kay turned his back to her, waiting for her to leave. It was too late, despite Vanora's insistence that she'd been given a second chance. It felt as if her heart tumbled from its rightful place in her chest into her shoes.

After ten years he could still make her heart soar or sink, just as he preferred it. She didn't understand why he had such an effect on her.

"I said get out!" he growled raggedly.

She watched him as he stood there, running a hand through his thick, black hair. She'd often teased him, saying that hair like that was such a waste on a man. Her fingers itched, remembering the feel of the sleek, long locks running through them. It didn't matter what he did to his hair; tail, braid, after an hour half of it would hang loose around his face again.

"No." It had escaped her mouth before she knew it.

Slowly he turned around. "What?"

More confident now, she repeated, "No."

"I am warning you, Andrivete," he threatened. "My patience hangs by a thread and so does my self-control."

She stared at the white scar running down his face. She remembered the fear she'd felt all too well. Fear of losing him.

"I was wrong," she said softly, realising it as she spoke the words. "I was wrong to leave you."

She'd been fond of Julius Septimus and had grown to love Gervasius, but the man who held her heart stood in front of her, simmering with anger. She could only hope he wouldn't crush it.

Kay's face became a stony mask, so she pressed him further. "I was afraid," she continued. "Of the inevitability of your death. After you were wounded, I was so sure you would die in service. I felt as if I'd lost you to the hereafter already. It was something I'd never considered before when we spoke of the future. Foolish, maybe, but…"

He still stared at her with steely eyes.

She shook her head. "As knight after knight died, my fears were validated. I couldn't just wait around for you to die. And I feared for myself. What would happen to me if I left Julius for you, and you died? I would be nothing, an easy prey."

"So you left."

"I left." Pleading, she looked at him. "I'm sorry. I was wrong."

"Why did you not tell me you were afraid?" he asked. The menacing growl in his voice had disappeared.

"What would you have said?" she replied. "You would've reassured me that you weren't going to die, when all I could see around me was death. Maybe you wouldn't even have done that, with that superstitious belief of you knights that thinking about the future brings bad luck. I am not like Vanora, able to live day by day. But I did love you."

She took a few tentative steps closer. "Please, believe me."

Kay reached out and tugged gently on a carefully curled lock of her hair. "You still go through all that trouble for a few curls?"

"Well, yes," she answered, shocks running through her when his fingers brushed against her cheek.

Smiling slightly to himself, he shook his head. "Romans," he scoffed, but he didn't let go of her hair.

"Thracians," she corrected him.

He wrapped the curl around his finger, staring intently at it. "You're weaving some sort of spell, aren't you, woman?" he grumbled softly, while his fingers abandoned the dangling curl and moved to her face.

"Is it working?" she asked, a little breathless, wondering just who it was of the two of them that was weaving the spell.

"Aye." His thumb traced her lip.

"Then yes, I am," she whispered.

His mouth replaced his thumb and kissed her lips fiercely.

Andrivete's mind reeled. Her body remembered him instantly and all she could do was hang on to him for fear of losing herself. He even smelled the same. Somewhere in the back of her mind it struck her it was ridiculous to remember someone by his scent, but she did. And it was intoxicating.

She smiled as his hands began to roam freely over her body, as they had always done, without waiting for permission, but with confidence and skill. The feel of those familiar hands sent such a surge of desire through her that her knees nearly buckled.

She considered asking where his bed was, though she wouldn't object to the floor either, but he beat her to it.

He broke their kiss, lifting his head.

"Good Lord, I've missed you," she gasped.

Kay's next words quenched her lust. He heaved a deep sigh. "Why are you here?"

Sobering up instantly, she knew things had progressed too far too quickly for her to continue her evasiveness. She mimicked his sigh. "I spoke the truth about wanting to see my old home. But it's not the only reason."

"I gathered as much," he deadpanned.

"Both Julius and Gervasius became part of a certain group in Rome. A group with powerful enemies. I'd been lying low in Eboracum the entire summer when the opportunity to go to Hadrian's Wall came…I have enemies too."

"Does Arthur know?"

"No."

"I can't keep this from him."

"Please, Kay. I've been safe here. I have _nowhere_ else to go." The grimness of her situation made her speak forcefully and urgent, a tone she did not use often.

"Arthur would never do anything to hurt you."

"He's an officer in the army and a loyal one too. I can't take that risk. I've fled as far as I can go."

"Who is after you then?" Kay demanded bewildered.

"People who do not like to be criticised."

He led her to a seat. "Talk."

"Promise me you will not go to Arthur," she implored.

He hesitated. "That's a lot you're asking of me, Andrivete."

"Please, Kay. This place is my last resort. If I'm not safe here, I won't be anywhere. I promise you, I'm not a danger to Arthur in any way."

"Very well," he nodded. "I won't tell him. Now start at the beginning."

"I will," she replied. "When Julius was discharged, we moved to Rome. We lived quite peacefully there for a while. Julius would go and meet a few friends of him every week. They would dine and have vehement discussions. I'm not sure how, but he came into contact with an important man of a group of dissenters. Julius asked me to host those dinners from then on. He warned me that it would be risky – that's why he couldn't have those dinners at his own home. His wife, you see. My house would be safer."

Suspiciously, Kay looked down his long nose at her. "These dissenters, what did they criticize?"

She looked him reluctantly in the eye. "The church."

Kay cursed loudly. "Have you gone insane, woman!" he shouted.

"Maybe I have," she shrugged. "But someone has to counter those power-hungry bastards who start shrieking "it's God's will" every time they want to get their own way."

"What do _you_ care about the affairs of a few high and mighty Romans?" he asked exasperated.

"I am a Christian, Kay," she snapped. "I'd rather not see my beliefs used for a bishop's personal gain."

Kay held up his hands in defeat. "Let's not get into this, agreed?"

She gave him a cheeky smile. "Like old times."

He gave a mock shudder. "You always were a horrible woman to argue with."

She glared at him for a moment, but then continued. "It was quite a large group that was assembling in my house every week. It was only a matter of time before the wrong people became suspicous. Julius had kept me out of most of it for my own safety, but we should have realised that no one would believe I had nothing to do with it."

"Julius did not die a natural death, did he?"

She shook her head. "We think it was poison, but we can't prove a thing. After his death, I considered myself safe for a while until two of my servants died in the same manner as Julius. I had returned my food untouched that night, because I wasn't feeling well."

"Gods," Kay mumbled.

"Gervasius, a friend of us who was involved as well, was planning his return to Thracia, our homeland. He asked me to come with him. We'd be safer if we got out of that hornet's nest. He proposed to me to improve my status and as his betrothed I travelled to Thracia, where I married him. He was killed during a barbarian raid on a town a few miles from our villa. He didn't have any children, so his property went to a nephew. There was nothing there for me anymore. I returned to Rome, hoping things would have quieted down by then."

"Let me guess," Kay interjected. "They hadn't."

"Not quite, no," she answered. "I had enough time to take care of my affairs, before I headed to Narbo and then to Burdigala. I headed north to Bononia to take a ship to Britannia when a warning reached me I wasn't safe anymore. So last summer I spent in Londinium, imposing on friends, until I had to leave as well."

"You were discovered again?"

"I wasn't yet, but two influential bishops were coming to Londinium in the spring. I thought it best to disappear."

"And you went to Eboracum."

"Yes, but the governor's villa is not as safe as a small fort on Hadrian's Wall. Staying there would have meant discovery."

Kay rubbed his face with a hand, but he could think of only one thing. "You're a fool, Andrivete. A complete fool."

"I'm not a fool. I'm a heretic. According to certain members of the church, that is. And I am running out of options."

* * *

Isabelle snorted. 'Requested her presence in his room', he had. Gawain had returned that afternoon from a five-day patrol with Lancelot, and Dagonet. She'd been with Vanora, who'd asked for her help now that she was nearly nine months pregnant. 

The idiot she called her lover had sent a servant to Vanora's with the pompous message. She snorted again. She knew why he requested her presence. Nothing like a few days of abstinence to stir him up.

As she walked to the main building – walked, mind you, she was most definitely not going to run – she grinned lewdly.

The last few weeks she'd hardly left Gawain's room when he was at the fort. And even when he was away she felt rather similar to a floating cloud. She knew she was wearing a completely conspicuous grin on her face, which just wouldn't go away. The hungry look with which Gawain observed her was just as obvious.

Lancelot joyously spilled his dirty jokes everywhere and even Galahad couldn't stop chuckling whenever he saw the two of them – except when he was distracted by Oona.

Isabelle couldn't care less. She was living in an exhilarated state and even Gawain's patrols couldn't bring her back to reality. Nothing could possibly go wrong. She knocked on his door, her grin widening when she heard his low voice. "It's open."

"You sent for me?" she inquired regally, closing the door behind her.

Like a starving man, Gawain sighed, "Finally. What have you been doing all afternoon?"

"Helping Vanora with some heavy work so her baby won't pop out early."

Gawain grimaced.

"So what did you need me for?" she continued innocently.

Slowly a smile crept over his face. "I've missed you."

"Did you now?" she teased. "But you were with Lancelot and Dagonet."

"Not quite the company I want in my bed."

"Well, Lancelot has very nice curls and Dag has a nice smile. He should smile more often."

Gawain glowered at her.

"What, no response?" she asked, widening her eyes.

"You have exactly two seconds to get over here, or I will come and get you," he threatened.

"My, my, aren't we impatient today," she chastised him, clucking her tongue. She shrieked with laughter when he lunged at her, dragging her close to his body and marching over to his bed, dropping them both on top of the blankets.

"We'll miss supper," she protested.

Gawain, straddling her hips and working nimbly on the laces of her dress, replied, "I don't care."

When he bent down and caught a nipple between his lips, his beard rasping against her skin, Isabelle decided she didn't care either.

Gawain fell into an exhausted sleep afterwards, indicating he hadn't been sleeping much during the patrol. Isabelle shifted in his arms, which were tucked around her, to look out of the window. It was getting dark early and chilly evening air invaded the room. Despite being hungry she didn't want to leave the warmth of the bed.

She spent a few hours slipping in and out of a pleasant slumber, but unlike Gawain she'd had no lack of sleep and so she lay awake for a while and watched the knight sleep, tracing his broad forehead and cheekbones, the square jaw line under his beard and his curved bottom lip.

Softly she kissed one of his eyelids, the slanted cornflower blue eyes still closed. Smiling, she ran a hand through the complete mess that was his hair. He'd had it washed and combed earlier, but their lovemaking had turned it back into the usual wild mane. She fumbled with a tawny lock, her heart filled with a strange sensation.

Slowly she leant over him and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I love you," she whispered.

One blue eye opened instantly. "Do you now?" Gawain asked.

Her jaw dropped. "I thought you were asleep," she gasped. Embarrassed, she sat up straight.

"Get back here," he grumbled, tugging on her arm and rolling on top of her when she fell back. He cut off her sputtering protests by engaging her in a deep kiss.

As she drifted off to sleep later that night she heard a soft rumble near her ear. "I love you too."

* * *

Loud rapping on the door woke them both. "Gawain, come to the Hall. Messenger from the coastal fort!" Galahad shouted. 

Gawain groaned and rolled out of bed. Searching for his clothes in the cold darkness of his room, he cursed under his breath.

"What's wrong?" Isabelle slurred sleepily. "It's still dark."

"I don't know," he answered. He found his trousers and hurriedly put them on. Sticking his head out his window, he estimated, "It's midnight. Couldn't that bloody messenger have waited until the morrow?"

Isabelle felt the bed dent when he sat down to put his boots on. She rolled towards him, putting her arms around him, planting a kiss on his back. "Where's your tunic?"

"No idea."

"I think you threw it towards the door."

"Ah, thanks. Well, get some sleep. I'll be back soon."

She slid back under the blankets, hearing the door open and close. She woke again when Gawain returned, but instead of undressing he lit a candle and began packing his saddle bag.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Fort Arbeia has been attacked by Saxons. Do you remember Seraphe, of the coastal fort?"

"Of course."

"He's come here. His commander, Cassius, has fought off the attack, but he won't be able to hold on much longer. He needs reinforcements immediately."

"You're going to war," Isabelle deducted, watching him strap on his armour. A cold finger of fear seemed to glide down her spine.

"I'll be alright," he reassured her. "Arthur is taking every man he can. He'll leave enough soldiers to guard the fort, but everyone else is coming. Junius will be doing the same with his men from Pons Aelius. I'll give your regards to Dinadan and Lamorak," he added with a wink.

His calm words did not have the desired effect. She sat up straight, clutching the blanket to her chest. Gawain fisted a hand in her hair and kissed her roughly. "I have to leave now. We have to get there as soon as possible. Keep an eye on Vanora, will you?"

And then he was gone.

The rest of the night she spent staring at the ceiling. She'd heard the shouts and orders of the soldiers preparing for a forced march and gotten out of bed, wrapped in a blanket, to watch the fort empty.

Shivering, she'd crept back in bed.

It was almost dawn when again she heard shouts and orders, but this time they mixed with war cries and screams of terror and the smell of burning wood.

* * *

Narbo - Narbonne, France  
Burdigala - Bordeaux, France  
Bononia - Boulogne, France, gateway to Britannia 


	39. Trap

**A/N: Hi everybody! First off, to Alexandra: it's not over yet ;), so be prepared for more drama. And everyone else, lots of thanks to you too for reviewing: la argentinita (Andrivete's story is a part of the mess, indeed), LegolasIsMine (drama ahead! Enjoy ;), and Lancelot will certainly be back!), Saxongirl345, Josje (my lips are sealed, but you won't have to wait very long to find out...), Priestess of the Myrmidon (I love writing Kay & Andrivete, so it's great to hear you like them :) ), Poseidon's Chickadee (I won't tell you, but you'll find out very soon), Furibondo (Very glad to hear you liked the Isabelle & Gawain moments and that it was worth the wait. I felt it had to take a while, so thanks for you patience!), Randomisation, and SwEeTiE823 (I must admit I'm very fond of cliffhangers and the torture involved :D).**

**I hope you'll enjoy the next chapter!**

**Love, WoE**

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* * *

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**Trap**

It took a while before Isabelle's brain registered the screaming. The smell of burning wood became stronger. She stumbled out of bed, leaping towards the window. What she saw sent such a terror through her heart her knees nearly buckled. The gates were wide open and men clad in skins and furs came bursting through the gap in the wall. Roman soldiers were lining up to stop their advance. There were only forty of them. And the attackers kept pouring in.

"Saxons," Isabelle breathed. "It was a trick. They lured Arthur away. It was a trick." She screamed when the door behind her flew open, banging against the wall.

"It's me!" Jols said quickly. "Get dressed and get your weapons!"

"What?"

"You can fight, can't you?" he shouted.

"You want me to fight _that_?" she shrieked, pointing at the window.

"Aye!" Jols yelled back. "We need every able man or woman, or the fort will be lost before we've had the chance to reach for our swords!"

"How many Saxons are there?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"If this is the army Arthur went to chase off, which I reckon it is, about three hundred," he answered.

How he could stay so calm, was beyond Isabelle. "Oh my God," she moaned. "I'm going to die."

"No, you're not," he snapped. "You're going to fight for your life and you're going to do it right now! Hurry up!"

She stared at him for a moment, blinked, and ran to her own room. She threw open the wooden chest under the window and rummaged through it, looking for a pair of breeches and a tunic. After putting on the leather vest Gawain had given her and her belt, she stuck two small daggers in her boots, her knives and a small axe in her belt, and tightly laced her wrist bands. Finally she grabbed Galahad's old bow and quiver. She doubted it would be of much use to her and still couldn't see it as her own, but she rather had too many weapons than too few.

Jols waited impatiently in the doorway. "Follow me," he said, his face grim as he began walking down the hallway, his sword drawn.

"Where are we going?"

"Outside."

They stepped out onto the stable court. Isabelle could see the gate, where the Roman soldiers were still holding the barbarian warriors off. "Why the hell is the gate open?" she yelled.

"Betrayal," Jols answered, gritting his teeth. "Someone opened the gate for the Saxons and killed the sentry guards. Now find a good position to use that bow," he ordered and ran towards the Saxons.

Isabelle swore. "You can't leave me here alone!" she screamed after him. "Bastard!"

In doubt, she watched the fight near the gates for a while, before she gave herself a mental shake, heading towards the stairs that led to the ramparts. She crept closer to the gate, taking cover near a turret. Notching an arrow with careful calculation, she felt calmer. This was what she was good at. Sneaking and striking unexpectedly. Not a full-blown battle.

She aimed at the Saxons that were trying to get through the gate, decided that careful aim was not necessary, and let the arrow fly. It embedded itself in the shoulder of a brown-haired attacker, who groaned, stumbling against the man next to him.

Shouting in a harsh language she couldn't understand, the man pointed at her, but the Saxons were pressed together too close to be able to aim a bow at her as they were held back by the Romans in front of them and pushed forward by their comrades behind them.

Taking less cover, Isabelle began firing her arrows in earnest. Her quiver emptied quickly and she was forced to run to the arsenal for new supplies. She made it back to her place near the turret just when the battle turned in the Saxons' favour. Some of them slipped past the Roman lines, too many for Isabelle to shoot down.

Her lips pressed together and her jaw squared in concentration, Isabelle took down as many as she could.

A woman's scream distracted her. All of a sudden she thought of Vanora and her children, trapped in their house. She yelped in pain when a crossbow bolt grazed her arm. Cursing herself for neglecting her cover, she rolled into the turret. The Saxons had gained enough room to start firing arrows and it would only be a matter of time before they could reach the stairs.

Isabelle fled from the ramparts, firing her last arrows from around the corners of buildings. Throwing down her now useless bow she ran through the streets and alleys towards Vanora's home, but skidded to a halt when she was near the main building.

"Claire," she breathed. Andrivete's maid, the only one link to her past she had, was still inside. Without a second thought she stormed inside, to Andrivete's room, and threw the door open.

The room was in complete disarray. The only calm one was Pia, the old nurse. Claire was on the bed, hugging her knees while she rocked to and fro with empty eyes. One other maid was running about, doing heaven knows what. Isabelle certainly had not clue.

"Come on!" she shouted. "We have to get out of here! Where are Andrivete and the other servants?"

"The other servants have already fled and we don't know where Andrivete is," Pia answered, trying to pull Claire off the bed. "Wake up, Clara."

"Not again," Claire moaned. "Not again, not again, not again."

The maid Isabelle didn't know began to wail when she looked out of the window, which only worsened Claire's condition.

"Stop that!" Isabelle growled. "We're leaving. Now! I have no intention being cornered here. You! What's your name?"

"Lucia," the unknown maid sobbed.

"Stop crying. You're coming with me. Claire!"

Claire didn't answer. She'd shaken off Pia's hands and put her arms around her head, muttering incomprehensible things.

Fear that she would not get out of the building before the Saxons reached it was gnawing at her, so Isabelle impatiently yanked Claire's arms away and slapped her. "Get up!" she shouted.

Claire stared at her in a daze, but let herself be pulled to her feet. "Isabelle?"

"Aye. Let's go now."

"You three go," Pia said calmly. "I'm staying here."

"What?" Isabelle gasped. "You'll be killed!"

"I am sixty years of age, girl. I can't go running about the streets anymore. I would only slow you down. I will lock myself in here and hope I will remain unnoticed."

With Claire clinging to her, Isabelle nodded. "As you wish." She paused and added, "Thank you."

"Just find Andrivete, will you?" the nurse requested.

"I'll try." Isabelle dragged Claire out of the room, Lucia close behind. Pia locked the door behind them, audibly barricading the door with furniture.

The three women hurried out through the front doors. Isabelle led them to the right, towards Vanora's house. The battle had moved to the streets, where smaller groups of soldiers and residents tried to hold the attackers off.

They slipped past the fights using small alleys and came to Vanora's street. Isabelle quickly searched the street for Saxons, her arm still in Claire's death grip, and decided it was safe.

Her heart nearly stopped when a tall figure ran towards them. "Kay," she choked, relief flooding her senses.

The blacksmith was wearing his armour and held a gigantic broadsword as if it were as light as a dagger. "Where the hell were you?" he bellowed at her.

"I was – the gate – arrows – thought of…" she stuttered. Her wits seemed to leave her now that she was in Kay's safe presence. "We can't – we can't find Andrivete."

"Don't worry about that. She's already at Vanora's," he reassured her.

His reply confused her. "How do you know?"

"Where do you think she was tonight?" he grinned, giving her a shameless wink.

She returned the grin half-heartedly, but fear took over again. "We're losing the fort, aren't we?"

Kay nodded. "Forty against three hundred. We won't last much longer," he replied. "I want you out of this fort. They'll start looting and pillaging soon and no one will be watching the gates. You can slip out then."

"What about you?"

His face split into a terrifying, maniacal grin. "I'll be amusing myself here."

"Don't you dare die," she gasped. "Don't you dare. I'll kill you if –"

"Enough chatting," he barked. "Get to Vanora and then get out. I'll hold them out of this street."

"Kay!"

"No Saxon will get me! Now go!"

Isabelle grabbed Claire and ran towards Vanora's house. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Kay run towards the other end of the street, searching for a fight. By then she had reached Vanora's door and opened it. Several children screamed inside.

"It's me!" Isabelle reassured them hurriedly.

Vanora stood in a corner with two of her younger children clinging to her skirts, a knife in her hand, her teeth bared. The look in her eyes said she would protect her children at all cost.

Isabelle cleared her throat. "We have to leave now. Can we reach the gates unseen from here?" she inquired as steadily as she could.

"Not with this many children," Vanora answered.

"Then we'll go in groups," Isabelle decided.

"I'm not leaving any children behind!" the pregnant woman growled.

"Then you'll go last. We'll make three groups. Andrivete, do you have a weapon?"

"Yes, Kay gave me a knife," the older woman answered. She held out her hand to Claire, who whimpered and took it.

"Good," Isabelle said. "You'll lead the first group. I want two of the older children taking a younger sibling. The rest stays here. Lucia, look after Claire. One, I want you with the next group. Gilly, you'll go with the first group."

Bors's oldest son nodded. Like his mother, he was armed and standing in front of two of his sisters.

Gilly, however, was not so compliant. "I'm staying to fight," he announced.

"Like hell you are!" Isabelle shouted at him. "You're staying with your family."

Gilly set his jaw, which made him look uncannily like his father. Isabelle realised she would have to change tactics to get him to do anything. She bowed down to his eyelevel. "Listen, Gilly, with your father gone, you and your brother are the men of this family. Your duty is to protect them."

Gilly glared furiously at her.

"What would your father say if he found out you had left them?"

He blinked, a little unsure.

"They need you, Gilly."

After thinking for a moment, he nodded. "I'll go with them."

"Thank you. I knew I could count on you." Isabelle looked at the others. "When you've passed the gates, hide in the woods and stay together. I'll go up front. Andrivete, Gilly, keep the children together."

She opened the door slightly and peered outside. There was a red glow to her right. Something was burning. The screams and the clattering of swords were much closer now. People were running across the streets to find cover, but Kay was nowhere in sight.

"Stay close, children," she said over her shoulder and stepped outside, unsheathing her knives. She walked out of the street, away from the fire. Using the little alleys they made it to the gate unseen, though it was taking them a maddeningly long time.

Lurking in the shadows of an alley, Isabelle watched the entrance. Thankfully the fight had already completely moved to the streets of the fort. There were only two Saxons on guard. They looked impatient and fidgeted with their weapons. Rage filling her heart, Isabelle reckoned they were all too eager to join in the fights.

Sheathing her weapons she turned to the children. "When I've taken out those guards, you have to make a run for it. Go to the woods immediately and stick together. Andrivete, are you ready?"

"Yes," the determined answer was.

She took a dagger from her boot, slowly standing up, not wanting to alarm the guards. She aimed and prayed to whatever deity she could think of that she would hit him. She threw the dagger. It hit the nearest Saxon in the chest and he fell over. She hid in the shadows again.

The other guard froze and searched for the culprit. Squatting, Isabelle grabbed her other dagger and adjusted her grip. She got up, aiming at the guard. He roared a battle-cry and stormed at her. The dagger flew through the air and the guard toppled backwards. "GO!" she screamed and Andrivete and the children crossed the distance to the gates.

The second guard wasn't dead and Isabelle ran at him to finish him off. She looked up from his dead body to see Gilly disappear through the gate. He was the last one.

Isabelle ran back to the alley and made her way back to Vanora's house. She had to cross only twenty feet of open space to get to her doorstep, but Saxons were already appearing at the end of the street. Five soldiers stepped in their way.

She dashed to the house. "We have to go now. All of us," she told Vanora under her breath. "They're almost here."

Vanora nodded.

"Let's go," Isabelle said to the children. "Everybody's coming with us. One, you go last." She looked at the twin girls – Two and Three, the sobbing Claire, and the deathly pale Lucia, who held Nine in her arms. "After I open the door and see if it's safe, run to the alley immediately and wait for me."

She checked the street and waved for the children to come. Two and Three ran outside, their brothers and sisters close behind them. Vanora left her house last, baby Ten and her knife in her hands, accompanied by One.

Isabelle kept a close eye on the fight on the end of the street. When they were halfway across the street, a Saxon killed one of the Romans and broke through the defence line of the soldiers.

Isabelle's eyes met his for a moment and bellowing a loud war-cry he stormed at her. "Hurry, Vanora, get away! Use the alleys!" she shouted. Vanora cast a last look over her shoulder and disappeared in the alley.

Isabelle drew a knife and her axe and waited for the barbarian. He stopped a couple of feet away from her, grinning. He pointed his sword at her, saying something in a language she had never heard before. She ignored the man's talk and began circling around him, forcing herself to breathe calmly. She made him follow her circle and waited for him to attack. He was patient for a Saxon, but that was just what she needed: enough time for Vanora and the children to escape.

They circled around each other for a few minutes. Isabelle made sure she stayed out of the reach of his sword, breaking out in a cold sweat. When she couldn't take it anymore, she started laughing defiantly and twirled her knife in her hand, nagging him with her limited but foul vocabulary of several languages, which she had picked up over the years.

He probably didn't get much of it, but definitely understood it wasn't flattering. He was getting angry.

"Come on, you swine! Didn't your mother teach you not to keep women waiting? Oh, but wait, she probably died of shame when she gave birth to you. Although she should have already done that when she shagged your sorry excuse for a human being father."

The Saxon narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaws.

Isabelle eyed him tauntingly. "Or was your father the swine and you just look a lot like him?" She raised an eyebrow. The Saxon was still waiting.

"Come on, piggy, piggy," she smirked maliciously. "I want to hear you squeal. _Oink, Oink,_ come on, you can say it, you ugly, pathetic, SWINE!"

The Saxon roared and raised his sword. Isabelle blocked the blow and stepped aside quickly, letting the strike slid down her axe and moving out of his reach again.

"Is that all you got?" she shrieked. "Ugly bastard!"

The Saxon came at her again, wilder and less careful than before. This time he swung his sword from the side and Isabelle jumped backwards. She knew she couldn't block a swing like that and jumped backwards every time he used it, still taunting and laughing at him, while the Saxon was becoming careless.

Finally he used his sword in a downward movement and she blocked him. In his rage he left his defence open, giving her the opportunity to slash him deep across his abdomen. The knife cut easily through the leather and his flesh and the shocked Saxon stepped back. Isabelle flung the sword out of his hand with her axe, disarming him.

The Saxon made no effort to defend himself, but held his hands in front of his abdomen. Blood and something else was seeping through his fingers. When he fell to his knees, Isabelle turned around and ran to the alley.

She was too late. Saxons were swarming through the streets everywhere. With a horrifying shock Isabelle realised she would never make it to the gate anymore. She would get killed before she even made it out of the street.

For a moment she thought about standing her ground, but then survival instinct told her to turn around and run. She thanked God she had the presence of mind to run in the other direction, away from Vanora and the children.

And run she did. She had never run so fast in her life. Loud roars came from behind her. Just when she rounded a corner, an arrow flew past her head. She ran down the other street, passing plundering and raping Saxons in a blur, and bolted into an alley. She glanced over her shoulder at her chasers and bumped into a blonde Saxon's back. She bounced backwards and dropped her knife when she landed on her backside.

The Saxon turned around in surprise and seeing her sit on the ground he started laughing lecherously. Isabelle searched for the knife and scrambled to her feet. The Saxon put his plunder on the ground and motioned her to come closer.

Isabelle took a fighting position and bared her teeth, hissing venomously at him. "Come any closer and I will castrate you," she threatened. He looked curiously at her. Suddenly his eyes darted away from her to something behind her. Isabelle flung herself aside. The tip of a sword whirred past her shoulder.

She faced the newcomer, who was almost ready to attack her again. Screaming in fury Isabelle jumped on him and stuck her knife in his neck. Her weight made him trip and fall on his back. Isabelle rolled over the ground.

Quickly she got up again. The blonde Saxon had drawn his sword and a very long knife, practically another sword. He was eyeing her furiously now.

Isabelle swallowed.

Without a word he began his attack. He used his weapons calmly, fast, and very skilful. Within seconds she knew she had no chance against him.


	40. Loss

**A/N: Hi guys! Updating quickly, because I'm off in a minute to see _Happy Feet_ in the cinema. They're getting a lot of money from me lately. Saw _Perfume_ last weekend ( nooooo, Alan Rickman had nothing to do with me wanting to see that film. I was...er...only interested in the story...cough, cough) and next week there will be _Eragon_ and _The Holiday_. Yes, yes, I know, they're so slow with new films here. It's very frustrating!**

**So, gotta go see some penguins now! Huge thank you for reviewing and enjoy this chapter...sort of.**

**Love, WoE**

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Loss

Arthur rode at the head of the group with Junius Livius, commander of the neighbouring fort, willing their men to go faster. The consequences of the fall of the coastal fort would be disastrous. Not only Saxons would have free entry to the south, Woads would have as well. On top of that, the Wall would lose its claim on the eastern coast.

They had left the fort more than an hour after midnight and should reach Arbeia somewhere around noon. It was now two hours or so before dawn. Arthur gritted his teeth. If he'd had mounted warriors he'd have been there much sooner, but the Roman foot soldiers were already going as fast as they could.

His knights were impatient as well. Tristan had been scouting the surrounding area for a while now, though they were so close to the Wall that trouble seemed unlikely. The scout left the back of the column after having exchanged some words with his brothers in arms and trotted up front. He nodded at his commander.

"Trouble?" Arthur asked tensely.

Tristan shook his head and glanced at the sky. His hawk soared in large circles over their heads. She would warn him if Woads were foolish enough to attack this large a group. He studied Arthur's face, which was taut with worry because they were taking too long. Many things could happen before they reached the coast.

When his hawk screeched a warning, Tristan shot up straight in the saddle, scanning the wooded hills to their right with suspicious eyes, but he saw no movement. Up front, about a mile away, was a cloud of dust, almost invisible in the dark grey of the hours before dawn.

"Arthur," Tristan warned his commander. He pointed at the cloud.

"Weapons!" Arthur and Junius bellowed at the same time.

Whoever they were, they did not come quietly and used the road. When the sounds became louder Tristan realised it was a contingent of Roman soldiers. Their leaders reined in when they reached the other party.

Aulus Cassius, _prefectus cohortis_, although Rome's slow drain of forces from Britain had left him with only half a cohort, looked very worried.

"We have a problem, Artorius. There won't be an attack on my fort, but on yours."

"What?" Arthur spat. "How do you know this?"

"We captured a Saxon. It took us a while, but eventually he talked. The attack on my fort was a deception, to make you leave yours. How many men have you left behind?"

The other knights came galloping up front. "What's going on?" Gawain demanded.

Cassius looked peeved at being addressed like that, but Arthur didn't care. "I left only forty. I only left enough to man the fort, not to withstand a full attack."

"Our fort?" Galahad interjected. "A full attack?"

Bors cursed under his breath.

"The fort is lost," Junius muttered.

"When? When do they attack?" Arthur demanded, his voice now loud with anger and horror.

"Just before dawn."

"We'll never make it back in time", Tristan said.

"But we're sure as hell gonna try!" Bors shouted. "I ain't leavin' Vanora to those pigs." He turned his horse around, immediately followed by Gawain, who had turned a ghastly shade of white.

Tristan looked at him, not a moment in doubt as to what was on the blond knight's mind. Isabelle was in that fort, trapped. His hands clenched around the reins, making his horse toss his head in annoyance. He spurred Perun on, following after Bors and Gawain.

It was taking them infuriatingly long to reach their fort. Leaving the foot soldiers behind would be suicide and Arthur had explicitly forbidden his knights to leave the group, so they had to adjust to their pace. Tristan fought his frustration. At this rate, everyone in the fort would be dead by the time they got there. He forced himself to breathe calmly when a picture of Isabelle appeared in his mind, bloodied and lifeless.

Perun jumped, not used to forcefully clasped reins, and Tristan loosened his grip, muttering a foul Sarmatian curse under his breath.

Dawn crept towards them from behind, but still they were not even near the fort. Every now and then Bors voiced his aggravation at their slow advancing, but Gawain was deathly silent, his eyes fixed obsessively on the horizon. He held his reins with one hand, gripping his mace in the other.

It was nearly sunrise when the fort came into view. Thick, black smoke coiled into the air. Faint screams could be heard. The gates were wide open. Galahad shook his head, mumbling something unintelligible.

Arthur urged the men to go faster, but forbade the knights to ride ahead. As they got closer, the screams became louder. Tristan reached over his shoulder and drew his sword. Though his own logic hardly reassured him, he thought that if there was still screaming she could still be alive. She could fight. She wouldn't just give up. If only she'd had the sense to hide somewhere, though the pungent smell of smoke proved that was dangerous as well.

Gawain rode to his right. His face was grim, his back rigid, in a clear attempt to keep his worries buried to stay concentrated. Tristan knew he was probably his friend's mirror image, though no one knew it was for the same reason.

Arthur realised he could not keep his men under control for much longer, and signalled the attack. The Sarmatians, who were all riding up front, took off, bellowing war cries, followed by Arthur, Junius, and the mounted Britons of Pons Aelius. Cassius stayed behind to command the Roman soldiers.

As they neared the gate, several Saxons ran out of the gates, but they were thrown to the ground and trampled by the thundering hooves of the horses. Once inside the fort the riders pushed their way through the gathering Saxons, paving the way for the soldiers on foot. They managed to keep the gate clear of enemies until the Romans arrived. Arthur, Junius, and Cassius called out their orders over the sound of roaring fires and Saxons.

Gawain dismounted, but was hit by a crossbow bolt when he shouted something at Galahad. With a snarl he had pulled the bolt from his right shoulder before Dagonet even reached him and leaped towards a Saxon. His brothers followed him, Bors the first of them.

They swept the square clean. Bors rushed inside the Tavern, but there was nothing but smashed barrels and toppled tables. The place was already looted. None of the bodies were Vanora's or his children's.

Tristan was a few feet away when Bors came outside again, shouting something at Dagonet. He could only make out the words "house" and "alive", but he could see Bors was ready to burst off into the streets, which were still swarming with Saxons. Dagonet grabbed his friend by the shoulders to talk sense into him, but Tristan could see no more as he had to defend himself from an attacker.

He dealt quickly with the eager Saxon and kicked the body aside. Around him lay several corpses of Saxons and Romans, both soldiers and residents, evidence of the battle that had raged here earlier. He could not find Isabelle's.

Arthur and Junius led their men into a street where they could still see fighting going on, while Cassius and the foot soldiers went off in another direction. One of the cornered men stuck his sword in the air when the knights reached them. "ARTHUR!" the man bellowed.

The left half of this face was completely covered in blood, his hair caked to his skull, but the size and shape of the man was unmistakable.

"Kay!" Arthur called back.

The blacksmith sent his former commander and brothers-in-arms a berserker grin, the white of his eyes flashing. "Took you long enough!"

"Your head..."

"Just a nick. Solid bone this is," Kay shrugged, patting his head.

"What happened?"

"Someone opened the gates from the inside."

Arthur's nostrils flared in rage. Gawain pushed his way through to the blacksmith. "Have you seen Isabelle?" he asked urgently.

"I told her to get out of the fort," Kay answered. "I sent her to Vanora's house, but I haven't been able to get back there since. Too many Saxons. I don't know if she – "

Gawain growled, a mixture of fear and frustration. He walked away, but was stopped by Galahad stepping bodily in his way.

"Andrivete and Vanora were there as well," Kay continued, slightly calmer as the rush of battle ebbed away.

"Let's see if we can get there now," Arthur replied. "Knights, follow me."

Slowly they made their way through the street. Tristan suffered a few small cuts, but was not hindered by them. Lancelot, on the other hand, took such a blow to his arm that he was forced to fight with one sword.

They passed a deserted alley. "Galahad!" Gawain snapped when the youngest knight suddenly dashed into it.

"I have to check if –" he called over his shoulder, but didn't finish his sentence.

Junius ordered Lamorak, Gethin, and Dinadan to guard the entrance to the alley while the others followed Galahad to a building in the middle of the alley. The door was blown from its hinges and the owner lay just behind the doorstep, run through. Tristan recognized him. This was where Dilys and Oona rented their rooms.

Gawain followed Galahad to the back of the building, while the others spread out, looking for survivors. Tristan guarded the entrance, knowing there would not be any.

It did not take long for Galahad to return with a body in his arms. Tristan took one look at it, recognizing the Hibernian girl's pale face and dark hair and spotting the torn dress and black bruises on her neck. He averted his face when the image made him think of another woman with dark hair and pale skin, who they had not found yet.

Gawain put his hand on his friend's shoulder when Galahad kneeled to put the body of his lover down, but Tristan could see Gawain was thinking of Isabelle as well.

"We have to go, Galahad," Arthur spoke softly.

The young man bowed his curly-haired head, but stood. His face taut, he stormed outside. Arthur motioned the others to follow and they walked out on the street again.

Gawain stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the Sarmatian bow lying abandoned on the ground near the corner of the alley they had just exited. He picked it up with a trembling hand. It was Galahad's old bow, a gift to Isabelle. Wildly, Gawain looked around him, but he nor the others could find anything else of her, least of all her body.

"Hurry," Galahad said darkly.

They made their way through the street, losing three of the Roman soldiers they had rescued along with Kay earlier. Dagonet escaped a painful death by jumping out of the way of a sword just in time, leaving him with a shallow cut across his stomach.

Finally, Vanora's house came into sight, though they had to finish two more groups of Saxons to get there. By then, everyone's breathing was heavy and laboured because of exhaustion and the thick smoke that floated through the streets. Sweat and blood had made trails in soot-covered faces.

Vanora's house was empty. There were no bodies of his lover or children, but it did not ease Bors's worry. Cursing and shouting he stomped about the house, but Dagonet quickly brought him to his senses. The knights left the deserted house and swept the street clean. When they reached the other end of the street, the Saxon defence intensified. The next street was filled with them.

Tristan eagerly jumped in to kill, as did the others.

"ISABELLE!" Gawain roared, edging on panic. Tristan ran the Saxon he was fighting through and jerked his head to follow the other knight's gaze.

Isabelle was walking backwards from an alley at the far end of the Saxon-filled street, forced into the open by a large man. She could barely defend herself from him.

Gawain tried to run to her, but Tristan pulled him back. "You're no use to her when you get yourself killed. Calm yourself!" he snapped at him.

Gawain growled and pulled himself loose, but engaged in his next fight with more care.

In between kills Tristan watched her. A few plundering Saxons near her looked up to see what was going on. There was no one left to defend the other end of the street and the Saxons there had already begun enjoying their spoils, both human and material.

The blonde Saxon continued his attack with grim satisfaction. Tristan could tell Isabelle was getting tired. Her blocks were growing weaker. The Saxon lashed out at her and left a cut in her upper arm. Tristan could see her cry out in shock and pain, though he could not hear it. Still, her voice seem to ring in his ears.

He was challenged by another Saxon and tore his eyes from her. If only she held on. Maybe they could get to her in time. His opponent died quickly and Tristan searched for the girl again.

The Saxon smirked at her when she examined her cut. It was only a shallow cut, although he could have done much more damage. By the look on her face she had realised too her attacker was just playing with her. The determined expression on her face made way for an apprehensive one. The look he gave her was one that promised pain and death.

A few Saxons were watching the tall blonde toy with her with eager eyes. He came at her again and she raised the axe just in time to catch the blade of his sword. She smacked his knife out of the way with her own and kicked him hard in the stomach.

He staggered backwards and shot an enraged glare at her. She clenched her jaw and breathed through her nose, her nostrils flaring. Her eyes were wide open in fear.

Without taking his eyes of her Tristan slashed another Saxon's throat.

"Gods," he heard Kay say to his left. "Look at his clothing. She is fighting their leader."

The Saxon leader took a moment to examine the tip of his sword. Tristan thanked his gods Isabelle wasn't fooled by the invitation. He knew the Saxon was waiting for her to do something rash. He hoped she wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.

She watched him carefully, like a mouse watching a cat. He gave her an appraising look and lowered his sword, motioning her to come closer in an almost friendly manner. The surrounding Saxons laughed.

A flame of rage surged through Tristan. He forced himself to stay calm. Anger was not a useful emotion in battle. To cool off he finished another Saxon, who left a cut in his shoulder before he died. Tristan brushed it off as nothing serious.

None of the knights were able to get any closer and had to watch their backs for Saxons coming from behind as well. Isabelle had no idea rescue was close. In reply to the Saxon's invitation she made a rude gesture with a defiant look. Tristan did not recognize it, but got the intention behind it. So did the chief, who narrowed his eyes and took position. She waited for the attack, which came hard and swift.

Again she was forced backwards, further away from the knights, as she desperately tried to block the attacks. She wasn't fast enough and the Saxon left another cut in her upper arm. This time she didn't cry out, but bit on her lip.

The Saxon had moved away again and invited her with a leering look. Tristan knew what he was trying to do. He wanted to break her. By the looks of it, it was working.

Tristan had to divert his attention to block a reckless attack from a tall Saxon. It was almost too easy to get past his defence. Cutting the tendons of his knees, he forced his attacker down, slitting his throat, not quite deep enough for a quick death.

An entire group of Saxons had now gathered to watch their comrade play with the girl. For now they kept their distance, but Tristan had a feeling they wouldn't for long. Hearing Kay spill curses in every direction told him the blacksmith agreed with him.

Isabelle was now shaking violently. Although she tried to hide it the Saxon noticed it and a smirk crept over his face. "Kiss my arse, you bastard!" she yelled at him. She was breathing heavily and uncontrolled. "All of you," she added, a dry sob escaping her.

They could not get closer to her. A consistent stream of Saxons replaced the ones that were slain by the knights. Tristan had to push down his growing frustration.

The Saxon began pacing sideways, talking to his trembling opponent. Although the scout couldn't understand him, he had no difficulty imagining what the man was saying. Promises of torture. Saxons were known for it.

Tristan knew there was no chance of escape for her. She knew it too. The other Saxons were slowly closing in. Blood was staining her tunic. Gawain roared deafeningly loud. She did not hear him, too much taken up in the ordeal.

Kay and the Briton Lamorak had pushed the Saxons back and the rest of the knights immediately joined them to create a path through.

Isabelle tried to focus, but her desperation was obvious. Her axe trembled in her hand, her face was contorted in anguish. She was giving up. It sent a pang of anxiety through Tristan's body. She could not hold on much longer and they were still too far away.

The surrounding Saxons were grinning maliciously, making rude gestures and groping movements with their hands. Tears were filling her eyes. She was afraid of dying. Furiously she blinked the tears away. Then she lowered her defences.

Gawain voiced the alarm Tristan felt too. "Isabelle, NO!"

The Saxon had stopped his pacing and was preparing for another assault, realising that she wasn't listening to his taunting. He lunged at her and she moved backwards, fending him off.

Tristan noticed with relief she had pulled herself together just in time. She launched a counter-attack. She had hit him and watched him check the wound on his arm, but not with satisfaction as she should have. She was still shaking heavily. Tristan noticed her grip on her weapons wasn't firm anymore. Her whole countenance already showed defeat, her chest heaving with tiredness and fear. The Saxon came at her again with a strong strike from his sword. He jerked the axe from her hand. She watched him toss it aside in absolute horror.

Squaring her jaw, she reached down and drew her second knife from her belt. The Saxon grinned and shook his head, as if he was dealing with a particularly stubborn child. She bared her teeth at him. Once more he motioned her to come to him. She didn't move an inch.

The knights were getting closer. Suddenly Galahad grunted in pain. He staggered backwards, holding his side. Tristan took his place.

"How bad is it?" Gawain shouted at him.

"Not bad," Galahad answered, looking at the cut. "Hurry up!"

After gutting a Saxon, Tristan took a few steps back and grabbed his bow, which he had slung across his back, and started shooting down Saxons. Galahad followed his example, though it made him groan.

The Saxon leader pointed his knife at Isabelle and said in slow Latin, "This is your last chance. You come to me now, or I will give you a slow and painful death."

"How about you stick that knife where the sun don't shine, you ugly son of a whore!" she screamed and threw in another couple of curses, to make sure there was no way back. She knew she was meeting her end when he snarled at her and raised his sword. He lashed out at her and she crossed her knives to block him, but the knife in his other hand made a gash across her ribs.

Blinded with pain she staggered backwards, gasping for breath. The next swing smacked the knife out of her left hand and another the knife from her right hand. She was now defenceless.

"NO!" Gawain roared. He hacked away at the warriors in his way even faster.

The Saxon pointed his knife at Isabelle when he walked towards her. She clenched her fists, refusing to cower. Her lips turned white, so viciously was she pursing them. The knife was put against her throat, but she still glared at the tall man when he hissed something at her.

He tapped his knife playfully against her chin, but when Isabelle spat in his face his victorious mood vanished. He placed the tip of the knife in the hollow of her throat, pressing hard enough to draw a drop of blood. When Isabelle closed her eyes, averting her face, he glanced at the knights' approach for a moment and motioned a group of Saxons to hold them back.

A tear rolled over her cheek when the Saxon pushed his knife through her skin again, more drops of blood welling up, trickling into the neckline of her tunic.

Tristan fought his outrage.

The Saxon ripped the laces of her tunic and leather vest with his knife. A small sob escaped her. The Saxon pushed the torn tunic and vest from her shoulder, pricking her skin once more. She refused to open her eyes and stood motionless. Only the gods knew what she was seeing right now, Tristan thought.

The Saxons were slowly starting to give way. Kay swung his broadsword furiously at them, his long hair slipping from his ponytail.

The Saxon chief snarled something. Isabelle's eyes snapped open when two pairs of hands grabbed her arms.

"No!" she screamed. "NO, not this, God, please not this." Gawain was going out of his mind, roaring and shouting at her. She was in too much terror to hear anything. She tried to jerk her arms free, but the Saxons only tightened their grip.

Tristan shot the Saxons faster and faster, fighting to keep calm. The girl's screams tore through his mind.

She kicked and screamed and wriggled her way out of their grip. The blonde Saxon slapped her hard across the face, her voice suddenly cut off. Her head bobbed to one side. Blood dripped from her mouth. He grabbed her chin, examining her face while he said something with a smirk to the men holding her. She jerked away and kicked him hard in the knee. He hissed in pain and slapped her again.

Finally the knights had breached the Saxon defence. Galahad and Tristan simultaneously shot the two Saxons holding her. They collapsed on the ground.

The Saxon turned around lightning-fast and faced a livid Gawain, who came at him with his mace and axe. Tristan and Galahad covered him, both shooting arrows at the Saxons as Roman soldiers finally poured into the street behind them.

Isabelle turned a dazed look on the knights. Her legs wouldn't carry her and she crumpled into a heap on the ground between the Saxons' bodies. Kay ran to her, pulling her to her feet and closing her in an embrace.

Tristan moved over to them to cover them.

"Thank the gods," Kay panted, pressing her even closer. "I thought I was going mad, seeing you like that. We couldn't get to you."

"Kay?" she croaked, her voice muffled by his leather armour. "You're breaking my nose."

"Sorry." He loosened his embrace and pushed her back to look her in the eye. "What the hell were you thinking? Taking on the Saxon leader like that! And why the hell are you here alone? I told you to get out!"

"I – I didn't…mean to!" she protested, suddenly shaking uncontrollably, her teeth chattering. "I couldn't get out with the others. They left and I was – I was stuck. There were Saxons everywhere. I was so scared, Kay." She rambled on, her voice occasionally hitching and breaking. "Where's Gawain? I want –"

She was clearly suffering from shock.

Kay grabbed her arms. "Listen to me, Isabelle, this battle isn't over yet. I need you to be strong. Just hold on a little bit longer. Now get your weapons, love."

Still shaking, she searched the ground for her knives and axe, dropping them twice before she managed to hold on to them. When she looked up again she saw Tristan standing next to Kay. She gave him a watery smile and said, "That makes us even, doesn't it? I saved you from a mad horse and you saved me from a mad – from a – from that." She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, biting on her lip.

Tristan said nothing, but put his hand on her cheek for a second, stroking the cheekbone. She was still alive.

Isabelle stared at him in confusion, but didn't pull away, though he did when Gawain came up behind her.

"Isabelle…"

"Gawain," she moaned, turning around, hiding in her lover's arms, which he wrapped around her tightly, burying his face in her neck.

Tristan watched them as they murmured nothings to each other's skin, but he averted his eyes when Gawain brushed her hair from her face and kissed her.

The look Kay sent him held more than a hint of a warning.

Gawain gently pulled her arms free from his neck. "Let's finish this," he said.

"Come on, let's kill the bastards," Kay growled. "Stay close, Isabelle."

They turned to the fights in the street, ready to rid the fort of the remaining Saxons, who were overrun by the knights and the Roman soldiers.

* * *

Isabelle tried to get some control back over her body and ignored the searing pain of her cuts. She stayed behind Gawain, who was forcing two Saxons backwards. He killed one by burying his axe deep in his neck and finished the other with a single blow to the head. 

The Saxons were driven back to the gate slowly. Isabelle told herself all she had to do was stay behind the knights and it would be over soon.

Her limbs felt heavy and she had trouble keeping focussed, because of the blood loss and the shock she realised she was in. She didn't even see the Saxon coming. He suddenly appeared on her right and raised his sword. Before she knew it, he'd swung it at her head. In slow-motion she lifted her axe in an attempt to block it, but he forced his sword down to her neck.

A large black shadow knocked the Saxon off his feet. Kay rolled over the ground and, grabbing his sword, he jumped on the Saxon. They wrestled each other, both grunting and growling. Kay had almost put his sword on the Saxon's neck, when the barbarian's hand moved to his boot and pulled out a knife.

"WATCH OUT!" Isabelle screamed. Right before Kay slit the Saxon's throat, he was stabbed in his thigh. Blood gushed out at an unbelievable speed. Kay rolled off the dying Saxon, clutching his leg, groaning in agony.

"Kay!" Isabelle yelped.

She ran towards him and put her hands on the wound. "HELP US!" she cried out. Kay's blood still flowed over her hands with every beat of his heart. Isabelle pressed her hands harder on the wound. Kay swore loudly.

Galahad dropped on his knees on Kay's other side. "Galahad," Isabelle panted. "Rip the sleeve of my tunic."

Galahad tore the sleeve from her arm with one jerk. "Keep your hands on the wound," he ordered, "and keep pressing hard. We have to stop the bleeding."

Isabelle applied even more pressure, wincing at Kay's groan of pain. Galahad tied the sleeve tightly around the blacksmith's leg, reducing the blood loss to a smaller, but constantly flowing stream. He ripped Isabelle's other sleeve. "Use this, Isabelle."

She did what he asked and pressed the cloth on the wound, praying it would stop the bleeding.

Galahad got back to his feet to guard the two. Isabelle looked at Kay's face. He was ghostly white beneath the dirt and blood. She noticed the cloth was still getting redder and bloodier by the minute. She let go of the wound to tighten the improvised tourniquet. Kay grunted. Isabelle pressed her hands on the wound again.

"Kay?"

Kay had closed his eyes and laid his head on the ground, breathing carefully.

"Hold on, Kay," Isabelle said in a quavering voice. "Stay awake. It's going to be all right."

She forced herself to be convinced of that, although his life was still slipping through her fingers. It was taking too long to stop the bleeding.

The sounds of the fight had ebbed away. Keeping her eyes on the wound, she blinked furiously not to cry, becoming more desperate every second. Kay was still concentrating on his breathing. Isabelle noticed a faint blue colour on his lips. Her heart froze and she couldn't hold back the tears anymore.

Running footsteps came towards them, slipping to a halt in front of her. Gawain's face appeared before hers. "I saw him fall. How is he?" he asked. His skin turned a sickening shade of grey when he saw Isabelle's tear-streaked face. He swallowed and gently put his hands on hers. "I'll hold it for a while."

Isabelle removed her hands, wiping Kay's blood off on her trousers, and moved over, lifting Kay's head in her lap. He opened his eyes and smiled. "It doesn't look good, does it?"

"It's just a cut," she said, avoiding his eyes.

Kay gave her a sardonic look. "You've never shown any sign of stupidity before, Isabelle. Don't start now."

More footsteps were heading their way. Isabelle looked up to see Arthur, Lancelot, and Junius with a concerned expression on their faces.

"Are they gone?" Galahad asked, sheathing his sword.

"Yes, we've driven the Saxons away," Arthur answered. "A small group escaped into the forest, though."

Isabelle's head shot up. "Vanora's in the woods. She escaped with her children and Andrivete," she said, just when Bors and Dagonet arrived. "At least, I think she did. I don't know – didn't see her after…"

Bors swore violently and turned around immediately. Junius and Lancelot followed him.

Dagonet examined Kay's leg. His and Isabelle's eyes met over Kay's body and she was confirmed in what she already knew. A small whimper escaped her lips. Dagonet got up and took Arthur aside. Arthur's face darkened and he looked at Kay. Dagonet moved over to Gawain to take over pressure on the wound.

"Kay, my friend," Arthur said softly as he placed himself at the retired knight's side. Kay looked at his former commander, his normally intensely blue eyes clouded with pain. They grabbed each other's wrists. Isabelle bit her lip, stroking Kay's raven hair through a mist of tears.

They sat in silence until Bors returned with his woman and children, followed by Andrivete and her maids. Tristan, Lancelot, and Junius and his men were right behind them.

"Kay!"

Andrivete pushed her way through the men, kneeling next to Kay, grabbing his hand. "What the hell did you do?" she demanded angrily.

"Bastard got me," Kay said matter-of-factly.

"What?" she squeaked, adding in a small voice while glancing at the people surrounding her, "Why is nobody doing anything?"

"There's no need for that anymore," Kay replied softly and with difficulty, squeezing her hand.

It was painful to watch Andrivete's face as her lover's words sank in and she looked at the pool of blood around his leg. She bowed her head with closed eyes, trying to shut the ugly truth out.

Without a word Bors marched up to Isabelle, dropped on his knees, and put his hands on her shoulders. He said something she recognized vaguely as Sarmatian and hit himself on the chest with his fist.

"What?" she asked bewildered.

"He honours you," Kay wheezed.

"You helped Vanora and my children escape and stayed behind to fight off the Saxons that chased you. I am forever in your debt," Bors said, his voice rasping with emotion.

"That's my imp." Kay patted the hand that Isabelle had laid on his shoulder. "You should have been born a Sarmatian." He reached for something under his armour. Arthur helped him. Kay, the strongest of them all, was already too weakened by the blood loss.

Kay held up a long, leather lace with a deep blue pendant on it. An eye was carved in the stone. "This is for you, Isabelle. My sister gave it to me for protection."

"Oh God, Kay, don't do this…please," Isabelle begged, tears filling her eyes again. She could hear Andrivete beginning to sob.

He reached for her hand on his shoulder and put the pendant in it. She fisted a trembling hand around it and he put his hand on hers.

Andrivete lifted his other hand to her mouth, kissing it and pressing her cheek against it. He stroked her skin with a finger. "My impossible, insufferable woman," he mumbled lovingly. "You already know everything I want to say to you."

With great effort Kay managed to smile at the two of them.

"Don't cry, Andrivete, Isabelle. I've got everything I want. My brothers are here with me, my favourite girls…" He squeezed their hands again. "I fought a great battle…" He was breathing more difficult now and the faint blue colour of his lips had spread to his face.

"You'll just have to deal with them yourself now, Isabelle, if they bother you. And Andrivete, well, you've never had any problems dealing with them, haven't you?" Kay nodded at his brothers. The two women laughed and sobbed at the same time. "You'll be fine," he added, gazing intently into Andrivete's tear-filled eyes. "You'll be fine."

Kay took a deep breath. "And I'll die a free man…"

He looked at the knights' faces, who were standing motionless around their fallen brother, saying goodbye to them one by one in silence. After sharing an intense look with his former commander he closed his eyes and rested his head in Isabelle's lap.

Dagonet untied the improvised tourniquet and Kay's blood started flowing faster and faster again.

Andrivete bent over him, kissing him, and put her cheek against his, tears silently falling from her eyes.

"Sweet Andrivete," he whispered.

"I love you, Kay..."

Kay's breathing was shallow and irregular. Slowly his grip on Isabelle's hand began to loosen. Andrivete lifted her head to look at him. He took a few more shallow breaths, before he smiled in the faintest of ways and let go of his life.


	41. Hidden Wounds

**Extra A/N: I had trouble logging in a few days ago, so I hope everyone got my reply to their reviews. If not, then I apologize now for the lack of response from my side and of course for Kay's untimely demise, which most people didn't approve of...

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Hidden wounds

Arthur calmly bowed his head in prayer, but Galahad turned around and slammed his fist into nearest wooden door. He rested his head against it, breathing heavily and difficultly, before he turned back with an expression that controlled his rage and grief, watching Gawain sit next to Isabelle and put an arm around her.

"I'm sorry, Kay. I'm so sorry," she whispered, stroking his hair.

Andrivete had put her head on Kay's chest, sobs racking her body.

The knights stood around Kay in silence. Vanora was crying, held by Bors, whose face was contorted as well. Their children clung to them. Lancelot stood motionless next to them, his jaw and fists clenched so tightly he trembled with the effort. Tristan's hands, for once unarmed, dangled at his side as he looked at Dagonet wrapping the sleeve of Isabelle's tunic around Kay's leg to cover the wound, a useless act that seemed to bring him comfort nonetheless.

Arthur put a hand on Andrivete's shoulder. "Let him go, Andrivete. It's all right." She recoiled from his touch. He sighed and put his arms under Kay's body to lift him on his shoulder.

"No," Andrivete wailed, scrambling to her feet and clinging to Kay's lifeless hand.

Isabelle still sat on her heels, one bloodied hand clasped over her mouth, the other wrapped around Kay's pendant. Gawain helped her up.

"Her cuts need looking after," Dagonet said. "So do ours."

"We'll go to the Tavern," Vanora decided, wiping her eyes and clearing her throat. "We've got plenty of room there."

"I'll tend to Kay," Arthur said and walked away, followed by Andrivete.

Isabelle stared at their backs without seeing anything, until Gawain gently led her away, supporting her as she stumbled.

The maids, Claire and Lucia, stood idly, not knowing what to do, until Vanora took charge and said, "Come along. We'll need your help."

After the knights had cleared the Tavern of corpses and put the toppled tables back, the women cleaned them as thoroughly as possible. By then wounded survivors began to arrive. The midwife that lived in the fort had survived and used her skills for cleaning and dressing wounds. The Roman healer was nowhere to be seen, so Dagonet did what he could.

Claire and Lucia had made a fire and were boiling water in an unbroken cauldron, washing out cleaning cloths in it.

Dagonet put Isabelle on a table and lifted her tunic. She hissed in pain when he carefully probed the gash across her ribs. "This will need stitching," he judged and added, "Are you having trouble breathing?"

"No." Now that the shock and adrenaline were wearing off, she felt woozy again.

"I don't think your ribs are broken. There's no swelling either."

She nodded slowly.

Dinadan burst into the Tavern, completely covered in black soot. "A building is about to collapse and the fire is spreading to the adjoining buildings. We need everyone to stop it."

Gawain hesitated, looking at Isabelle. "I'm fine," she reassured him, though she was seeing two of him, one slightly transparent. "Go and help."

He gave her a quick nod and followed the other men out of the Tavern. Dagonet stayed behind, handing Isabelle something to bite on while he stitched the wound. "It's not very deep. It should heal neatly," he told her.

She didn't reply, so Dagonet just helped her sit up so he could wrap bandages around her ribs and dress the shallow wounds on her arm. "I want you to find a seat somewhere and eat something. I know you're still dizzy."

Carefully she walked over to a corner and sat down, willing the world to stop spinning. She leaned her head against the wall, closing her eyes, until she felt a small hand grab her own. Seven sat down next to her with a concerned face.

"Are you sick?" Bors's daughter asked.

"A little," Isabelle answered. "Are you all right?"

"I don't like the woods at night," Seven pouted. "I was scared."

Isabelle couldn't help but chuckle. Seven had slipped past burning buildings and fighting Saxons to escape the fort, but what she remembered were the woods. "I was scared too," Isabelle replied, "but we're safe now."

From their secure corner they watched the chaos in the Tavern. And almost unrecognizable Bors and Galahad brought two coughing men in, all completely black with soot. Gawain was right behind them, supporting a near unconscious third man, who practically had to be dragged to a table.

"Beam on his head," Gawain reported, his voice raw. "Where is –"

Dagonet pointed at the corner.

"How are you?" he asked, walking over to Isabelle.

"I'll be fine," she said. "Just waiting for the ground to stop dancing."

Gawain kissed the top of her head, ruffled Seven's hair, and left the Tavern again.

Vanora brought Isabelle some bread and water, which she ate without tasting anything, Seven sitting silently beside her. Absent-mindedly she noticed the Roman healer enter, covered in blood he claimed wasn't his, and help Dagonet take care of the injured. Arthur made a few appearances, dirtier every time. There was no sign of Oona or Dilys, though a few other women were handing out food and water.

The mist didn't clear from her head until she heard Seven ask, "Why did Kay go to sleep?"

Isabelle's breath caught, a lump in her throat. "Because – because someone hurt him very badly, Seven. And he had to…rest."

"Oh." The girl thought about it for a moment. "Will he wake up soon?"

Isabelle shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. "No, he won't wake."

"Are you sad?"

She nodded. "Aye, I am."

Seven inched a little closer and put her head against Isabelle's shoulder. "Me too."

Isabelle laid her cheek on the girl's head, tears falling on her auburn hair.

* * *

Helped by a persistent drizzle, the fires were under control by midday and the knights entered the Tavern, where they quickly ate something and cleaned their faces. Isabelle still sat in the same corner, Seven asleep in her lap. 

Dagonet insisted he looked after their injuries before the knights went back to cleaning up the fort. Lancelot's and Galahad's most serious wounds had already been taken care of earlier, and the others had claimed they only had minor injuries, but the chaos had prevented Dagonet from checking that for himself.

When Gawain removed his tunic, Isabelle noticed his brow was beaded with sweat. He was also rather pale and had to lean on a table for support after he dropped the heavy cloth.

"Gawain…?" Isabelle asked worriedly when he turned around and she saw the shirt underneath was soaked with blood, some dried and some fresh.

"Don't worry," he answered, his voice slurred. "Only a bolt in my shoulder. It's just the warmth here that's making me –"

"Dagonet!" Lancelot snapped, when he saw his friend reeling. Gawain's knees buckled, almost bringing Lancelot down with his him as the dark knight had just grabbed him around the chest.

Isabelle shot out of her corner, leaving a disgruntled Seven behind. "Gawain!"

Lancelot laid Gawain on the ground, panting in pain when he strained his injured arm and again when Isabelle shoved him aside, kneeling next to the pale knight. Tearing the neckline of his shirt with trembling hands, she bit down hard on her bottom lip when she saw the wound.

Gawain had clearly pulled the arrow from his shoulder himself in the midst of battle, as the wound was far from being clean and neat.

With dazed, half-closed eyes Gawain looked at Isabelle when she growled, "Damn it, you great big idiot! Why didn't you have this looked at earlier?"

"Not so bad…" he mumbled. "Didn't bleed that much…"

"Well, it's started bleeding again," Dagonet said as he crouched next to Isabelle. "I'll have to clean it first. There's dirt in it."

Gawain closed his eyes. "Perfect."

Isabelle sat fretfully at his side while Dagonet cleaned out the deep wound, Gawain biting down on a piece of leather. After he was finished, Dagonet told Gawain to stay in the Tavern, so he could keep an eye on him. He was put on a makeshift bed of blankets and a straw sack, where he finally passed out completely.

"Keep an eye on him," Dagonet told Isabelle, "and watch out for a fever. There was a lot of dirt in that wound."

She nodded. When Dagonet walked away to resume his stitching, she whispered anxiously to the unconscious knight, "Will you just stop getting hurt?" She took his hand in hers, settling on the floor next to him.

"He's not like Kay, is he?" a soft child's voice behind her asked.

A wild fear took hold of her, despite the innocence of the remark. "No," Isabelle choked, turning to the girl standing behind her. "No, Seven, he's not. He'll wake up. He'll wake up soon!"

"Oh," Seven said, taken aback by Isabelle's vehement reaction.

Shaking like a leaf, Isabelle repeated, "He'll wake up soon."

Her frantically beating heart did not calm down. She watched him like a hawk to make sure his condition did not worsen, but Seven's words did not leave her. _He's not like Kay, is he? Like Kay?_

After several hours some measure of peace descended on the fort. The fires were extinguished, the last of the injured received treatment, and everywhere people dropped where they were standing, exhausted.

Isabelle's eyelids were drooping. Seven was already fast asleep next to Gawain. Isabelle blinked and yawned, but lost the battle eventually, closing her eyes.

* * *

Tristan had rinsed his mouth with water several times, but couldn't lose the taste of soot. With a cloth some girl had offered him he had wiped his face and hands, but he was still filthy. 

Vanora – she'd looked exhausted and kept pressing the knuckles of her fist in the small of her back – had given him some broth, which he was eating right now, while observing his surroundings. He was sitting near the entrance to the Tavern, where only the heavily injured still lay. Most people had gone back to what was left of their homes.

Arthur, Junius, and Cassius were in the fortress hall, discussing the things that had to be done first. Now that the fires were all put out, the ruins had to be cleared, and the corpses still had to be buried. Tristan knew it meant they'd be digging graves for days. The dead Saxons would probably be thrown in a mass grave, away from the fort.

Junius and Cassius would have to go back to their own posts as soon as possible. Woads were more than likely to take advantage of the weakened positions on the eastern part of the Wall and they still had the remnants of the Saxon army to deal with.

It probably meant Arthur would send him on a lot of scouting missions the next few days. His commander had already ordered him to get some rest, but Tristan was still too wound up. Night was near, anyway. It was already getting dark. If he went to sleep now, he'd wake up long before dawn. It was better if he stayed up a little longer.

His thoughts were interrupted by an ear-piercing scream. "DAGONET!"

Tristan leaped to his feet, searching for the source of the racket. He saw Dagonet and Lancelot run towards Gawain's makeshift bed while Isabelle sat on her knees, frantically wiping his forehead.

_Fever_, his mind immediately deducted. Fearing for the impending death of yet another comrade, he hurried inside, to where Gawain lay, where he quickly saw the younger knight was still quite alive. His cheeks were flushed and his hair soaked with sweat, yet he still seemed to be aware of his surroundings, albeit barely.

Dagonet called for water and cloths and undressed his friend. He removed the dressings of the wound and cursed. His face was ashen as he looked up at Tristan and Lancelot, standing over their friend, and said, "Infection."

Isabelle gasped, her face aghast. "No," she moaned. "Please, no."

"How bad?" Lancelot asked.

"Not too bad yet," Dagonet answered, hurriedly setting to work when a woman brought him the desired water and cloths, "but we have to cool him down as soon as possible. Help me."

Isabelle, near the point of hysteria, kept muttering things about Kay. With both compassion and annoyance, Dagonet looked at her. "Get her away from him!" he barked.

Tristan grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet, but she began to struggle to get back to the fevered knight. She leaned forward in Tristan's unrelenting grip, sobbing, "Please, Gawain, stay awake," before she broke down completely, Gawain's condition being the last straw.

Gritting his teeth at the irony of the situation, Tristan pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her. Isabelle turned around, weeping into his dirty coat. He placed a hand around the back of her head as he watched Dagonet cool off the body of his brother-in-arms with a taut face. Over the years they'd lost more knights to an infection of smaller wounds than to wounds that were immediately fatal.

Isabelle leaned so heavily against Tristan that he supported almost all of her weight. He was not comfortable with the position he was in for several reasons. First of all, he had no experience with crying women and on top of that, though he doubted Isabelle was aware of who was holding her, _he_ was more than aware of the woman in his arms.

He nearly jumped when he felt her hands grip his jerkin. Though he despised himself for it, his fingers nevertheless wove through her hair, massaging her neck in a gesture that was not entirely meant as soothing. To have her this close again was both comforting and extremely unsettling.

Galahad's arrival was a relief. "Here," Tristan growled, pushing Isabelle towards him. "Hold her." Subconsciously he took a step back.

Confused, the youngest knight opened his arms, holding the exhausted woman close. "Tristan?" Galahad asked worriedly, his eyes on Dagonet and Lancelot's frantic work on Gawain. "What happened?"

"Infection," Tristan answered. He watched the young man's face drain of blood. His brother, Percival, had died of infection. Would Fate truly be that cruel, Tristan wondered.

Galahad struggled with his self-control, but when Isabelle began to cry again, he focussed his attention on her, whispering in a hoarse voice that everything would be well soon, but with tightly closed eyes.

It was almost unbearable to watch the two people closest to Gawain so distraught over him and Tristan found himself backing away. "I have to…" he muttered vaguely, before stalking out of the Tavern, desperate for fresh air to clear the whirl of thoughts in his head.

* * *

Lancelot found him on the ramparts, some time later. Wordlessly, he held a mug of ale out to the scout, who took it with a grateful nod. Lancelot leaned his back against the stones, next to Tristan, who continued to watch the dark landscape. 

"You all right?" Lancelot asked.

"How's Gawain?" Tristan parried.

"Not very good. Dagonet is still trying to get him cool. Arthur is with them now, Galahad and Isabelle as well, of course," Lancelot added, watching Tristan's reaction from the corner of his eye.

There was no perceptible reaction, except perhaps the scout's shoulders becoming more rigid.

"Vanora's gone into labour," Lancelot continued. "A little too early, Bors said, but it's no wonder with everything that's happened."

Tristan made a non-committal sound and they were silent for a while.

"Tris?" Lancelot began carefully, tracing the rim of his own mug with his thumb. "Dagonet told me something a while ago. And I saw your face in the Tavern earlier. When you held Isabelle."

The reaction was perceptible now, Lancelot noticed. A stiffening of his friend's entire body, followed by a stillness except for a measuring glance, much like a predator preparing for an attack.

However, Lancelot pressed on. "You're a hard man to read, but I saw…" He paused. "You love her, don't you?"

Tristan's hand shot out, grabbing the collar of Lancelot's tunic. "Stay the hell out of my business!" he hissed, pushing the younger man away from him, against the battlements.

But Lancelot retaliated, seizing the scout with both hands and reversing their positions. The mug of ale shattered on the stones. "This is _my_ business too!" he snapped. "You walk around brooding and being moody, antagonizing the entire fort. If you hadn't intimidated every soldier for the last ten years, someone would have had a go at you already! But if you go any further, someone will anyway. You're not concentrated and you're reckless! And I _know_ this is because of her and Gawain! So deal with it, before you get yourself or someone else killed!"

"There's nothing to deal with!" Tristan growled in Lancelot's face. "I don't care what you think you saw. It's nothing that a quick tumble wouldn't fix." Shoving him away, Tristan moved to walk away.

"Oh really?" Lancelot sneered. "I know you already had a quick tumble. Didn't fix much, did it?"

Tristan turned back with a snarl, planting his fist in his friend's face, whose head snapped backwards. "Stay the hell out of my business," he repeated. "I won't warn you again."

Licking his split lip, Lancelot watched Tristan go, seething with anger that he had failed to get through to the scout. He pressed his hand against his lip and watched the blood on it, suddenly shivering. He'd come to talk to his friend out of fear that this situation might get out of hand, but the sense of foreboding that made the hairs on his arms rise told him he no longer had to wonder _if_, but only _when_ it would get out of control.

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**A/N:** Hi, everyone! I hope you've all enjoyed your holidays. I've been studying for my exams (oh joy!). I'm still not completely sure about Tristan's reaction ( the part I've been chewing on for ages), but I decided in favour of the planned storyline. Thanks for all your responses to the previous chapter and please let me know what you think of this chapter. 

Love,

WoE


	42. Cracks

**A/N: Hello! Yes, I'm still alive, but I haven't been writing much. I did pass all my exams (yay!) and I've started a new job, my family is expanding rapidly (a new cousin on one side of the family, and two cousins on the other side giving birth to 2 girls practically at the same time. I've been shopping for baby clothes and fairytale books like a madwoman :D ) **

**A big thank you to Lady of the Plains, Saxongirl345, la argentinita (very true, what you said...), Smg1017, Atanvarne06, Randomisation, June Birdie (I hope you're still alive and able to read this chapter!), cat-eyes120, and LegolasIsMine ( Lancelot your favourite? I would never have guessed ;) I think Galahad is cute too) for reviewing!**

**On with the chapter...

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**Cracks**

Isabelle let out a quivering sigh. It had been a week and Gawain's condition was slowly improving. She'd spent those seven days next to his bed, constantly cooling his heated body. The fever had broken yesterday, now they had to wait until Gawain woke up.

Six days ago Galahad had told her Oona had been killed in the attack, as well as Dilys. The day after that they'd buried Kay next to Bedivere. Andrivete had not left her room since. Quite unexpectedly, her nurse Pia had survived. Junius and Dinadan had found her in her mistress's barricaded room.

Isabelle knew Gawain would hate it that he'd not been at Kay's burial, if he woke up. _When_ he woke up, she corrected herself. She wiped his forehead with a wet cloth, squeezing her burning eyes shut to hold back new tears.

The last few days she'd felt as if her world had crumbled down around her, while she was left shivering in the dark. The sense of security she'd had was gone, vanished. It had been false. This fort was just as dangerous as any other place in this world. She'd thought Oona would be safe here, like _she_ had been, and look what had happened to the Hibernian girl.

Isabelle felt sick. If it hadn't been for her, Oona would never have been in the fort when the attack came. She'd brought the newly freed woman here, only to let her be killed by a Saxon. Isabelle hadn't even thought of her during the attack. She had never felt so guilty about anything in her entire life.

And Kay…Loud, rowdy, rudely direct, loveable Kay. The now familiar stab of pain made Isabelle wince nonetheless. He had died trying to save her. Because she'd been inattentive and careless, because she had failed to defend herself. He'd had to come to her rescue and had paid the price.

She'd nearly lost Gawain as well. Touching his hand for reassurance, Isabelle heaved another sigh. The fever had really broken. The wound was healing. She wouldn't lose him.

But she had lost Kay. She couldn't seem to get past that fact and be happy about Gawain's recovery. Kay, who had never judged her for the things she'd done, who'd accepted her strange presence in his life with little more than a shrug and an offer to buy her a mug of ale. Who'd told the knights to shove off when they were teasing her, who'd offered her his home for protection when she was alone and wounded in the fort, who'd always had time for her, no matter how busy he was.

He was gone. She had killed him.

Isabelle quickly rubbed her eyes when the door to Gawain's room opened and Galahad entered. "How's he doing?" the knight asked.

She cleared her throat. "Better."

Galahad took in her haggard appearance and, though he was not looking too well himself, said kindly, "Why don't you get some fresh air? I'll stay here. Vanora has been asking for you, by the way."

She nodded and got up stiffly from her chair, leaving the room after a last look at Gawain. Disorientated she walked about the fort for a while. She'd intended to go see Vanora and her newborn babe, but couldn't bring herself to face the woman. Kay's pendant hung heavily on her neck, like a chain dragging her down.

All Isabelle wanted was to get away from her and the knights. They all kept looking at her as if she had done something brave, when she was the reason their friend had bled to death. She didn't want to see them.

Arthur had said it was all right. Isabelle snorted. It was not all right. How could it be when Kay was dead? She'd been too weak and stupid to take care of herself and he had died as a direct consequence.

Almost blind she walked around the fort and ended up in the stables. She entered the stall of Kay's stallion, retired just as his master had been. "Hello, Kolya," she muttered with her head against his massive black flank.

Kolya snorted softly.

The horse's warm body offered comfort and Isabelle stood there for a long time, inhaling the scent of hay and horse, before leaning against the side of the stable and sliding down in the hay, tucking her knees under her chin, staring at Kolya's legs.

The sorrow she felt was mingled with guilt and a rising anger. Sitting at Gawain's bed had dulled her senses, but here, in the stables, she remembered how furious she'd been at Kay's burial.

She'd sat in the very same stall as she was sitting in now, having escaped the chaos in Gawain's room as Dagonet and the fort's healer tried to subdue the raging fever.

"There you are," a male voice had said. Isabelle had opened her eyes to see Lancelot hanging over the stable door. "It's time for Kay's burial. Are you coming?"

His words made her want to cry again, but Lancelot's calm presence enabled her to get up with dry eyes. "Aye."

Lancelot took Kolya's halter from the stable door and stepped inside. He led the horse from its stable, while Isabelle walked next to him. They met the other knights at the courtyard. Dagonet held Kay's body in his arms, completely wrapped in white linen. Isabelle had to restrain herself with all her might not to cry out in anguish at the injustice of it.

They walked to the cemetery outside the fort. Isabelle dreaded each step. Dagonet laid Kay's body in the earth, while the knights formed a circle around the grave, squatting next to it one by one, murmuring some words and putting something in the grave. Arthur had gone last.

When he was finished, they looked at her. Isabelle took a few hesitant steps and kneeled at the edge of the grave. "I have nothing to give, Kay, except my love and gratitude for you and my regret." Isabelle almost choked on the words, truly wanting to scream and shout at him, blaming him for being dead. "I'll miss you."

She kissed her fingers and placed them gently on Kay's wrapped cheek, her chest feeling as if it was being ripped apart. She got back to her feet and took her place beside Lancelot, watching Andrivete say goodbye to the man she loved for the last time.

Isabelle's cheeks burned. How the older woman must hate her.

Bors and Tristan scooped the earth back in the grave and created a small burial mount. Galahad slammed Kay's sword in it.

Isabelle stared at the hilt, fury eating her up from the inside, fists trembling with rage. The knights stood in silence around the grave for a while, before they turned away and made their way back to the fort, one by one.

Sitting in the silence of the stables, Isabelle allowed herself to be overcome with that same rage, directing it not against the two merchants who Tristan had found fleeing the fort with Saxon gold and who'd been executed two days ago, but against herself and Kay. She knew the others were worried about her and tried to talk to her, but she didn't care and avoided them. They'd all accepted Kay's death so calmly it infuriated her.

Suddenly the quietness of the stables felt smothering, making Isabelle flee outside in search of breathable air. After taking a deep, shuddering breath, she resumed her wandering around the fort.

Her feet led her to the training court. She leaned on the fence, almost able to see Kay as she'd seen him for the first time. She'd sat on top of Gawain, avenging herself for being thrown into a trough, listening to the blacksmith berating the knight for not knowing how to treat a woman.

No one was in the training court now. Only a dummy stood in the middle of the large, empty space, indicating someone had been training earlier. Isabelle's hand went to her belt, unsheathing a knife. She weighed it in her hands. No one would bother her, it was time for supper.

She climbed the fence and headed straight for the dummy. From a distance she threw it at the construction with all her might. Quivering madly, the knife stuck in the wood.

Isabelle stalked towards it and jerked it back. It was not suitable for throwing, too long, too heavy, and the tip was slightly curved.

She put it to better use and started hacking at the dummy, welcoming the pain in her ribs, which were still very sore. Dagonet had removed the stitches only last night. As usual her mind went over the raid and it didn't take long for her to get raging mad at everyone again. She swung her knife furiously at the dummy, grunting and snarling in the crisp evening air.

Images of Kay kept appearing in front of her eyes. Sitting in the Tavern, laughing his booming laugh. On his horse, proud and almost arrogant. Exasperatedly rolling his eyes when she would say or do something he thought was ridiculous.

Her muscles protested against the harsh treatment, but she hacked and slashed relentlessly, slamming the knife into the dummy, using every ounce of strength she had. Panting, Isabelle stopped for a moment, before she jerked it back.

Kay was always so protective of her and treated her as if she was special. Now that habit had cost him his life. The knife chipped a piece of wood from the dummy. "Fool, stupid honourable fool," Isabelle growled and hit the dummy again.

"Being angry with him doesn't honour his memory," a deep voice said. Isabelle recognized the voice and accent instantly.

"Leave me alone," she snapped, lunging at the dummy again.

"You shouldn't close yourself off from the others like that. They are worried."

Incredulously, she stopped in the middle of an attack and turned around to face him. "That's rather a statement coming from you. Why shouldn't I? Or would you like to have that privilege all to yourself?"

"It's the way I am," Tristan replied simply, "but it's not you."

"How would you know?" she snarled contemptuously. "Just leave me alone, Tristan."

"No."

"Haven't we done this before? I'm not taking the bait again," she sighed and turned her back on him, returning to her mutilation of the dummy. "Stay then. Fine. I don't care. Let's have a pleasant conversation about the weather." She emphasized each word with another indentation in the wood, wishing she'd had an axe with her.

"It's guilt, isn't it?" Tristan asked. "Guilt for not being able to fight the Saxon off, for Kay having to save you, for Kay dying instead of you."

Her body stiffened, her grip on the knife tightening as she heard the dark knight voicing what she felt. She faced him again, fire shooting out of her eyes. "Guilt?" she hissed. "What do you know of it? Just back the hell off, Tristan. I'm warning you."

The sound of steel sliding out of a scabbard surprised her. Tristan held his curved sword loosely in his hand. "Come on then. I know you want to have a go at me. Unless you're too scared to fight a man now," he drawled, deliberately provoking her.

His cool appearance and his remark made her explode and she ran at him with an enraged snarl. He blocked her reckless and furious attacks with ease, giving her a shove that made her stagger backwards.

"Is that all you've got, girl? No wonder Kay had to come to your aid," Tristan taunted. Isabelle's jaw dropped and with a hiss she lunged at him. They battled each other wildly and every cell in Isabelle's body screamed in ire.

Tristan pushed her away again. Pointing his sword at her, he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "Kay died because you were too weak to defend yourself."

Isabelle cried out when he hit that nerve. Flinging her weapons aside she attacked him bodily. Startled, Tristan got his sword out of her way in time, but he was too late to grab her hand. Isabelle lashed out at his face with her nails, leaving a bloody scratch on his cheek.

He hissed and tried to hold her. She fought and kicked him when he grabbed her waist and threw her on the ground, pinning her down with his body and seizing her wrists when she tried to claw at him again.

"Let me go, you bastard! Son of a whore! I'll kill you! How dare you – how dare you say that?" she shrieked and started to wrestle him, showering him with vile curses, while Tristan tightened his grip painfully, only making her fight him harder.

"ENOUGH!" Tristan barked. It was the loudest sound she had ever heard him make and it shut her up immediately. His eyes flared in anger. Intimidated to the bone, Isabelle lay still.

"Kay was a warrior. He knew he would die in battle. It's not your fault. You did all you could," Tristan continued, his voice low and quiet again.

"You're wrong," Isabelle told him. "It's all my fault. I should have fought that Saxon myself."

"You were injured and in shock. Kay was right to protect you."

"He should have left me. Then he would still be alive," she groaned, appalled when she felt tears in her eyes again. She averted her face.

"And you would be dead. It was his choice to make, not yours. It's his right as a warrior. Respect him for it, don't hate him."

"I don't hate him," she choked, her rage vanished completely. "It just hurts so much."

"I know. But don't do this. Don't rage." The unusually gentle tone with which he'd spoken to her kept her silent, but she turned her head back to him.

Tristan said nothing as well, though he made no move to get off her either. His dark, hazel eyes gazed into her own, making her grow uncomfortable. The atmosphere around them was changing and Isabelle could feel it.

"Seems all we ever do is fight, doesn't it?" she remarked softly, in an attempt to hide the confusing muddle her head was getting in.

He didn't answer. Her hips were still locked between his knees and her wrists pressed to the ground by his hands. His eyes travelled down her face, flicking towards her heaving chest, and settled on her mouth.

Isabelle squirmed with uneasiness and discomfort, vowing to herself that that was all she was feeling, ignoring her loudly beating heart. "Tristan…" she pleaded. "Don't."

Tristan continued to stare at her lips.

Isabelle swallowed, her breath shallow and fast. "Don't, Tristan," she panted. "Let me go. I have to get back."

Finally he seemed to hear her. He released her wrists and stood. Isabelle took the hand he offered and let herself be pulled to her feet, regretting it the moment his hand touched hers. Her skin remembered his and the way it felt on hers. She jerked her hand back, looking at him with a mixture of alarm and suspicion. What was he doing?

She jumped in shock when she heard Bors's voice. "Isabelle!"

"Aye?" she squeaked.

Bors frowned. "You all right?"

"Fine," she answered. "We…er…"

"We had a little talk," Tristan answered for her.

Bors stared pointedly at the scratch marks on the scout's face. "Some talk you had."

Tristan didn't seem inclined to reply, so Isabelle said, "Did you need me for something, Bors?"

"Gawain has woken up. He's asked for you," he answered, adding with a grin, "Quite impatiently too, I might add."

Isabelle flushed guiltily and hurried off without another word. She smoothened her hair as she made her way to Gawain's room. What had been going on just then? What had happened? What was Tristan playing at? And what the hell was wrong with _her_? She was in complete turmoil about this startling twist.

Worst of all was her own reaction. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't deny that for a terribly confusing moment she'd wanted nothing more than to push her hips up to the man straddling her, to have him do what she could see in his eyes he wanted to. Kiss her.

She was breathing erratically. She leaped up the steps that led to the doors to the main building and slipped past the guards, not even bothering to give them a nod. How could she have forgotten what he'd done to her? How he had violated her trust? How could she have even let him hold her down like that in the first place?

Because of Kay.

The chaos in her head grew worse. She stood still in front of Gawain's door, pressing her forehead against the smooth wood, before opening it and stepping inside.

A pair of bright blue eyes looked at her. Isabelle sighed. This was what was important. Not the mess outside of the room, only this.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Good," Gawain answered with a slight smile.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Isabelle laid her head on his shoulder, choking back a sob when Gawain wrapped his arm around her. "Forgive me for scaring you," he mumbled in her hair.

"Don't worry," she replied. "When you're better, I'm going to kill you for it."

Gawain laughed, the richest and most soothing sound she'd ever heard.

Only this. All she had to do was stay away from _him_ and she'd be fine. She and Gawain would be fine. What had happened in the training court was not important. It was nothing. She'd just been upset, not in her right mind. She loved Gawain, she couldn't be more sure about that.

Tristan was just – she didn't know what he was and didn't want to know. Nor did she want to think about her reaction to him. Stay away from him, that was what she was going to do. Stay away from him.


	43. Reconciliation

**A/N: I can't believe I haven't updated in 4 friggin' months. I do have an excuse: I now have a bachelor's degree and I've already been on a 4-week holiday to celebrate. **

**Maybe a little late, but I still want to thank everybody for their wonderful reviews of the last chapter. Tristan, the poor sod, suffered a lot of criticism, which is not usually the case. You guys are normally so understanding ;) ... Anyways, before I shut up again, I just want to say that I love reading your opinions on the relationship between Gawain and Isabelle. So, thanks!!**

**And, to show my remorse, I will be posting two chapters. **

**p.s. I feel like we need that male voice-over you always hear on TV series: "Previously, on PPF..." And then a recap, just to recollect what was going on.**

* * *

**Reconciliation**

Isabelle smiled to herself as she crossed the courtyard to the Tavern a week later. Since he'd woken, Gawain had been healing quickly. She called for Vanora, but one of the barmaids said she hadn't come in yet. Isabelle waved her thanks and left again. Supposing that Vanora was probably busy with her children, she walked on, habit taking her automatically to a place she did not want to see.

She swallowed when she realised she was nearing Kay's house and smithy. The door was closed and locked, no sounds of metal being hammered into place. Isabelle stopped and stared. To her, more than the scorched buildings and the gaps that collapsed houses had made, the emptiness of Kay's house embodied what had happened that night.

She wished she could say that any moment she expected Kay to come out of his house to invite her in, but she couldn't. It was gone. The warmth and openness that his home had emanated had vanished along with him. This was just an abandoned house.

Her hand found its way to the pendant she wore around her neck. Taking a deep breath, Isabelle turned around and headed back to the courtyard and the gate, knowing she could no longer put it off. Even Gawain had already visited Kay's grave, leaning heavily on Galahad. She'd declined his offer to go with them, unwilling to face that small earthen mound with a sword driven into it.

She knew Tristan was right. Kay had been more than aware of the risks he was taking and had chosen to risk his life to save hers. Isabelle closed her eyes. It was just the outcome of that gamble that hurt so much.

Isabelle forced herself to fight the urge to slow down, knowing she would never make it if she stopped now. It was only a short distance from the fort to the cemetery. She carefully made her way past the other swords, shivering in the cold autumn air. She kneeled in the grass, changed her mind, and shifted until she sat cross-legged, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, looking at the leather-wrapped hilt of Kay's sword.

To the left of the heavy broadsword stood another one, almost identical, which had belonged to Bedivere. She smiled at the sword. "Has he found you yet?" she asked the knight she would never meet.

The sword remained silent, but it was here, surrounded by his brothers-in-arms and his first commander, that Kay came closer, close enough for Isabelle to smell the smoke and metal in his hair, to hear the laughter that came from deep within his chest, to see his eyes flash in anger and sparkle with joy. She could see him standing amidst unfamiliar warriors, slapping backs and clasping arms, making metal armour clatter.

Isabelle reached out and fisted her hand in the brown earth before her. "Thank you," she said softly. "For accepting me, and protecting me, and saving me, and …"

She smoothened the dent her hand had made in the mound. "Oh Kay, I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you – I never was. I was scared and hurt and – well, perhaps a little angry – and lost. I was lost. I came to depend on you; I thought that I'd just have to walk to your house and you'd be there no matter what, that you would take care of me. I was wrong. You died; you left me alone, when I thought I was safe with you.

"Oh God, I don't mean it that way," she stopped herself. "I'm not blaming you – you did what you thought you had to do. I know you did. You saved my life; you did take care of me and I am grateful. I am. I truly am. I just – I miss you.

"I don't understand. I've known you for only a few months and yet I miss you so much." Isabelle wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and sighed deeply, regaining some control over herself.

"I came here to apologise," she continued in a firmer voice, "and to thank you. So thank you, Kay. For everything you've done for me."

She touched his pendant. The loss was no less painful, but it didn't feel as if it was about to drown her anymore. For the first time since the attack she felt she could breathe freely.

A soft cough startled her. Andrivete stood a few feet away from her. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Isabelle shook her head, keeping silent as Kay's lover kneeled next to her, finding that she was not completely without guilt yet as Andrivete murmured a prayer.

The two women sat quietly at the grave for a while.

"I heard you were injured in the attack," Andrivete finally spoke.

"Aye," Isabelle answered. "I got myself trapped in the fort."

"I am grateful for what you did for me," Andrivete said. "I would never have escaped from the fort if it hadn't been for you."

Isabelle cringed. "Kay is dead because of me," she said through clenched teeth. "You owe me nothing."

"Everybody dies when it's their time," Andrivete replied. "I am fortunate to have been reunited with Kay before he was taken away."

"Then you shouldn't be grateful," Isabelle retorted, vexed by the calmness of Andrivete's reply. "Clearly it wasn't your time."

Andrivete looked at her kindly, ignoring the younger woman's harsh tone. "That doesn't mean I'm not thankful for your assistance in the matter. I am indebted to you. And Kay would have done exactly the same if he'd been given a second chance," she added.

"I know," Isabelle admitted.

"Do you?"

"Aye, I do. I just – I would have done things differently. I would have paid more attention, I would not have let that Saxon overpower me and – "

Andrivete snorted. "And then what? Do you really think that Kay would have watched you fight a Saxon even if you _could_ handle him? Then you didn't know him very well. He would have shoved you aside and told you to find someone your own size."

That last comment was so reminiscent of Kay that the tears sprang to her eyes again. At the same time a smile tugged at her mouth. "He would, wouldn't he?"

She sighed deeply. "God, I'll miss him."

"So will I," Andrivete said. She looked at the grave and chuckled suddenly. Catching Isabelle's mystified look, she explained, "Have you ever heard of that legend about fallen warriors?"

Isabelle shook her head.

"It says that Sarmatian warriors who fall in battle return as horses, to guide other warriors."

Isabelle stared at the other woman, not understanding why this had amused her.

"I just – I already feel sorry for the knight riding the horse with Kay's soul," Andrivete continued and chuckled again.

An image of an enthusiastically bucking black horse popped up in Isabelle's mind, making her snort with laughter. She quickly muffled the sound with her hand, but Andrivete only smiled.

"Kay wouldn't want us to stay sad," she said.

* * *

The next day Andrivete cleared her throat as she stood in the doorway to the fortress hall, allowing herself a small smile as Arthur looked up from his papers with a disgruntled face and his hair messy from the many times he'd run his hands through it. She could easily see the sixteen-year-old boy who'd been so serious about his military training under Julius Septimus sitting there. 

"Sorry to disturb you," she said. "I was hoping I could speak with you for a moment."

The piqued expression gave way to a polite one. "Of course. Excuse me, I was just…"

"…busy," she finished and took the seat he offered her. Her eyes glided over the perfectly round table that dominated the hall. The formality of the room sparked some anxiety in her, though the table itself was reassuring. No man more important than the other. She hoped the man sitting next to her was as stout a believer in this principle as everybody proclaimed him to be.

The risk she was taking nearly overwhelmed her and for a moment she considered not telling him at all. But she had promised Kay. The Saxon attack had changed everything, but not her promise to tell Arthur about her situation. She was scared, now more than ever because Kay wasn't there to support and protect her, but he had told her she could trust Arthur.

"How are you?" he asked, interrupting her train of thought.

She smiled at his careful question. "It's strange. I used to be so afraid of losing Kay. I always thought I'd lose my mind if he was taken away, but now … I don't know why I'm so calm. I suppose I'm grateful for being allowed to return to him, for the time we've been given. And perhaps I've always known he would leave me this way, I don't know…"

She looked up to see lines of pain in Arthur's face. "Oh, Arthur…"

"I never thought it would be him. He served my father, Septimus, me … Buried his closest friend. He survived. As a boy I thought him indestructible and that idea lingered, I suppose. You have no idea how important he was to my knights. He was one of the older generation, one of the men who took them under their wing when they first arrived here as boys. And he lived. He built himself a life here – they told him he was mad – but he became a rock, living proof of a life they could all lead.

"He shouldn't have died," Arthur continued. "He shouldn't have died. He had earned more years."

"It doesn't work that way."

"I know," Arthur sighed. "Forgive me, I should not have burdened you with this. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Andrivete hesitated._ Kay_ _said you could trust him_, she thought. Without further thinking, she quickly said, "You should know why I'm here."

"And why is that?" Arthur asked, so calmly that she suspected he'd known all along she'd kept things from him.

"I am … not a popular guest in Rome anymore. Septimus had enemies in Rome and they're my enemies too." Andrivete folded her hands to hide their trembling. There, she'd done it. Her own leap of faith.

"I think you'd better tell me more," Arthur insisted, rubbing his stubbly cheek tiredly.

* * *

Isabelle felt Gawain's large, almost square hand follow the curve of her hip in a wordless invitation. It was the middle of the afternoon and she was lying fully dressed on his bed, to which he'd returned on the healer's orders after having been caught in the stables saddling his mare. They'd fallen silent after they'd talked about Isabelle's meeting with Andrivete. 

"You're sure you've recovered enough?" Isabelle asked innocently, waiting gleefully for an offended outburst.

Gawain's hand pinched her bottom in retaliation. "I'll have you know that the healer has declared me perfectly healthy. I just needed a little rest, he said."

That was a lie. "Oh, really?" Isabelle replied. "Was that before or after he told me he'd have my guts for breakfast if I allowed you to strain yourself?"

She had no difficulty understanding the curse muttered into the pillow and chuckled. "I can't have you risking your health, now can I?" she added sternly.

Gawain groaned pitifully when she pressed herself closer against him. "_That_ would be risking my health," he retorted.

"Would it?" she mumbled, placing feathery kisses on his chest. Her hand brushed against parts of him that needed no further encouragement.

"For heaven's sake, woman!" he exclaimed. "Stop tormenting me!"

"I can't go against the healer's wishes," Isabelle said resolutely, earning herself another groan from Gawain as she nipped his collarbone, before pulling back.

"Trust me when I say I'll repay you for this," he vowed as Isabelle sat up straight.

"Gladly," she grinned. "But there will be no repaying now." The grin vanished suddenly from her face. "Repayment," she mumbled.

"What?"

"That's it! She said she owed me," Isabelle explained excitedly. "Andrivete is in my debt!"

"I dread to think what is going on in that mind of yours right now," Gawain remarked with a suspicious look.

"I have to go!" she exclaimed, quickly kissed her lover, and dashed out of the room.

"I'll get you for this!" he yelled after her, but Isabelle was too excited to hear him. She stormed down the corridor, barely avoiding bumping into Galahad, and ignored his outraged cry as he was shoved against the wall. She headed to the fort's only guest room.

Finally, finally, she'd found a solution! She rapped on the door and waited impatiently for it to open. "Is Andrivete here?" she asked Pia.

"No, she's visiting Arthur."

"Where?"

"She said he'd be in the fortress hall, but she should be back s – "

Isabelle had already taken off again, shouting a thanks over her shoulder.

Arthur and Andrivete had just exited the hall and stopped to talk outside its doors. Curiously they looked at Isabelle who hurried towards them with pink cheeks. "Andrivete," she began breathlessly. "May I speak with you?"

Andrivete looked at Arthur, who said, "He is my mentor. If Septimus was a friend of his, he – and you – are friends of mine. It pains me to hear of such disagreements in the Church, but I stand by what I was taught as a child. You're welcome to stay here for as long as you like."

Isabelle had no idea what they were talking about and didn't care.

"Thank you, Arthur."

Arthur nodded. "I'll leave you two and get back to my work. You are well, Isabelle?"

"Aye, thank you." Isabelle waited until Arthur had returned to the hall before she turned to Andrivete. "I've come to ask a great favour of you."

"What is it?"

"Yesterday, at Kay's grave, you said you were in my debt," Isabelle explained.

"I am."

"A life for a life, that's what I ask of you."

"I'm not sure I understand," Andrivete frowned.

"I ask you to set Claire – Clara, I mean – free."

Andrivete's russet eyebrows raised to an almost unnatural height. "I beg your pardon?"

"Clara. I want her to be freed."

"Why does a slave girl concern you?"

"Because we knew each other as children," Isabelle answered, having thought of a reasonable explanation while she was looking for Andrivete. "She was sold into slavery in a cruel and unjust fashion. She should be free."

"She never told me she knew you."

"We haven't seen each other in many years, but she remembers me. Please, she can continue her work as your maid and you'll be her patroness, but make her a freedwoman. She deserves it."

"Well, I … This is not what I expected when I said …" Andrivete began.

"You didn't mean what you said?" Isabelle demanded in a rising voice.

Andrivete's cheeks turned pink. "Don't question my word, girl," she snapped, but Isabelle didn't back down.

"A life for a life," she pressed. "You promised."

"Fine," Andrivete agreed. "I'll have a messenger bring the paperwork to Eboracum."

"Thank you."

The extraordinarily coloured eyes seemed to assess Isabelle. "You're a very unusual young woman," Andrivete said slowly.

Isabelle stiffened slightly, but managed to conceal it. "I wouldn't call you conventional either."

Andrivete's mouth twitched into a smile. "I suppose not."

"Ladies…"

Isabelle turned around at the sound of Lancelot's voice. Tristan was a little behind him, looking her straight in the eye.

"Lancelot, Tristan," Andrivete greeted them politely as they walked past the two women on their way to the hall, no doubt for a meeting with Arthur.

Her eyes following them, Isabelle suppressed the mess of feelings the scout invoked. Much of it was gratitude for having cleared her head about Kay, which was dubious in itself as she disliked being grateful to him for anything. And then there were the sensations of the rough skin of his hand and his face hovering over hers, too close to be decent.

"I still marvel at the likeness between those two," Andrivete suddenly sighed.

"I beg your pardon?" Isabelle blinked. "Their _likeness_?" There were few people less similar to each other than Lancelot and Tristan, except perhaps for a certain brooding quality. Lancelot's extravert nature and his use of as many words as possible to convey his thoughts and opinions opposed in every way Tristan's conviction that a simple glance or grunt were conversation enough.

"Yes," Andrivete replied. "They were like this when they were boys. Both trying so hard to keep their demons to themselves. Not allowing themselves to confide in another – it's a hard path they've chosen."

There was truth in Andrivete's observation, Isabelle admitted. For all his jests and laughter, Lancelot rarely opened up to anyone – perhaps to Arthur, but Isabelle could not be sure about that. Tristan was, of course, unyieldingly distant, but perhaps not so very different from Lancelot.

"They must've had a fall out," Andrivete continued.

"Why would you say that?" Isabelle asked bewildered.

"Lancelot only lets go an opportunity to irk or talk to a friend if he's angry," Andrivete answered, and nodded at the closed door to the fortress hall. "And just now, he was ignoring Tristan. I wonder what has happened between them."

Isabelle shrugged. "I have no idea."


	44. News

**A/N: Okay, here's the next chapter of today... Enjoy!

* * *

**

**News**

Life was turning back to normal. Houses were rebuilt, the harvest was stored for the coming winter, and the Roman army had reformed its defence line after the near decimation of one of its forts.

The raging fall storms made it impossible for the seafaring Saxons to come to the island, because of which a certain peace had descended on the land. Even the Woads were preoccupied with preparing for winter, giving the Roman army a much needed reprieve.

Arthur was no fool. He knew his enemies would be laying ambushes and planning attacks with full strength once winter arrived. He organized his fort's forces and corresponded almost daily with the commanders of the neighbouring forts.

Because the soldiers and knights were busy following Arthur's incessant orders, the Tavern was less crowded at night than usual, but the serving girl in chief Vanora was not sorry, having a baby, unceremoniously called Eleven, to care for.

Like the army, the tradesmen were getting back on their feet. Isabelle found she still had a job with Berwyn, who had survived. His shop unfortunately had not and thus it had taken him a while to get back into business. He'd undertaken a few trips and returned with enough goods to reopen, while he'd left Isabelle in charge of patching up his looted shop.

She, for her part, was grateful to have something to do. With Gawain hardly in the fort ever since he was declared fully healthy again, Vanora busy with her work and children, and Kay and Oona gone, she was left mostly on her own.

She became closer to the recently freed Claire, who'd received the papers confirming her new status a little while ago. She was still in Andrivete's service as her chambermaid, _earning_ a wage now instead of being given it as a favour of her mistress. Her employer was unable to understand why it mattered so much to Claire and Isabelle, but the two young women were united through this matter.

Andrivete still had influence over Claire, being her patroness. Isabelle was luckier; Maurus would have been her patron, but he was dead. Arthur, the man who'd technically freed her, had a claim to patronage, but Isabelle knew he would never act on it.

The notion of being free had changed Claire. The downcast, dejected woman was not gone, but her shoulders were straighter when she walked and Isabelle had seen her smile genuinely in response to jokes. It would take a lot for Claire to heal, Isabelle knew, and she doubted it could be done here. Only her family and her home could do that, perhaps, but there was no way she would ever be able to get home.

Despite the fact that things were looking up in the fort, the Saxon attack had left scars. There was Galahad, whose rage against the Romans had increased after losing Oona. If it hadn't been for them, she wouldn't have been in their fort, not even in Britannia, and wouldn't have run the risk of being murdered by a Saxon. His reasoning wasn't perhaps entirely logical, but that didn't stop him from taunting everyone who was even remotely Roman. Not even Arthur was safe. Nearly losing his closest friend had been a huge blow as well.

Gawain had never failed talking sense into his younger friend before, but even he had trouble reasoning with the brewing knight. Galahad had been heard shouting at Gawain that he had saved his woman and couldn't possibly understand him.

Lancelot and Tristan were quite cold to each other as well, but for reasons unknown.

Only Dagonet seemed to be wholly unperturbed, though perhaps he merely let on nothing, because his brothers were in turmoil enough.

Vanora's younger children were scared easily and their father had trouble keeping his protectiveness in check. Gawain, too, resented the fact he was much more often away from the fort than in it, forced to leave Isabelle on her own, though she reassured him time and again that she was doing fine.

It wasn't a lie, not completely at least. She was no longer consumed by her grief for Kay, but that did not mean the pain was gone. She missed the hulking blacksmith terribly. The tiniest thing that reminded her of him could still bring her to tears. She stayed as busy as she could to avoid that, since it seemed to happen mostly when she was alone.

Galahad vented his anger and hurt on Gawain, but Isabelle knew it was her he was angry at. Gawain had neglected his injury because of her – partly at least. She'd managed to get Vanora and Andrivete out of the fort, and had been saved herself. The only one to die was Oona. It was unfair. Isabelle could do nothing but agree with him.

It was unfair. The invasion of the fort had smacked away Isabelle's illusions about the place. However foolish it seemed now, the fort had been a refuge to her. Never mind the Woads and Saxons, she'd felt safe here. Safe from the harsh outside world she lived in.

Right after Kay died, she'd felt unreal – everything had felt unreal, but when Gawain had collapsed, she'd come crashing back down to the ground. Even now she shuddered at the storm of emotions she'd felt when her lover had been diagnosed with infection and fever.

And then Galahad had told her about Oona and every last bit of the illusion had been blown away. No one was safe.

It felt cold and hostile and she wished she could beg Gawain to stay with her, but she knew that there was no way he could and that he would worry about her when he should be paying attention to nothing but his weapons.

It did not help that Claire had a tendency to talk about their home, their families. Isabelle couldn't see the point, they would never go home. Why pain yourself with memories like that? She did not want to answer the question if she would go home if she could, because it was completely irrelevant. Why vex yourself with dilemmas that didn't exist?

Dusting off a set of hairpins, Isabelle sighed. She and Claire were so different; it was hard to imagine that they really did come from the same place.

A shout from the sentry guard announced the return of the knights. With a fearfully beating heart, Isabelle shot out of Berwyn's shop to the gate, arriving there just in time to see her knight sitting upright in the saddle, twisting his blond head in search of her. She laughed relieved, jumping and waving.

He smiled back and motioned her to come to the gate to the military quarters, which she did immediately, gathering her skirts and slipping past the onlookers. When she got there, Gawain was just exiting the gate, looking tired and dirty, but alive and unhurt. She walked straight into his arms, the knot in her stomach loosening.

"Gods, you smell good," Gawain mumbled in her hair. "I've missed that."

"You've missed my smell?" she snorted.

"Certainly," he replied. "You would understand if you'd had to spend a week sleeping next to Bors's feet or Lancelot's armpit."

She laughed and pushed him away when he began to sniffle her neck wildly. He held her by her hips and grinned down at her.

Isabelle rubbed a finger over the grime on his cheek. "Go and take a bath. You're filthy," she smiled.

"Come to me later?" he asked.

"Aye, I'll just finish up in the shop to avoid incurring Berwyn's wrath," she winked and kissed him soundly before hurrying back to the shop, hoping in vain Berwyn hadn't noticed she'd left the shop unattended.

* * *

Scrubbed clean, Gawain leaned against the tiled wall of the bath, letting the warmth of the water soak into his muscles, slowly beginning to feel like a human being again. They'd had a week of rain during their assignment, a week of sleeping in the mud or in draughty barns with wet clothes. 

There were few things he hated more than this season of water, wind, and more water. He couldn't wait for winter to start. He'd much rather have the freezing cold than this ceaseless pouring down of rain.

With a small smile he closed his eyes. He'd just have to sit through Arthur's debriefing and then he could truly warm himself. His body stirred at the images of Isabelle he conjured in his mind, her luminous green eyes and kissable mouth, framed by the thick dark locks he loved to run his fingers through.

Before he could indulge himself in more vivid imaginations, he was disturbed by Bors's threats towards Lancelot. Clearly, the curly-haired knight had recovered sufficiently from their mission to pick on his friend again.

Lancelot threw his arms innocently in the air, so that Gawain could see the new scar on his arm. The wound, sustained by a Saxon in the fort, had seemed serious at first, but no muscles or tendons had been hit, and after it had healed it hindered Lancelot no longer.

They had all escaped without permanent damage. Galahad's side had healed, his own shoulder worked perfectly again, though Gawain knew he needed to keep training, for his arm became tired more quickly than the other.

He had already invited Dagonet to spar with him in the morning, though Isabelle had offered to help him too. Gawain chuckled to himself. If he fought Isabelle, he would be too busy trying to fight off her dirty tricks than actually fight. What he needed was a fight with full-strength strikes, one after another after another. Dagonet was much better suited for that job, and besides, Gawain didn't dare use his full strength in a fight with Isabelle for fear of actually hitting her.

With his eyes closed again, he listened to Dagonet and Bors's mumbled conversation with half an ear, his mind drifting off in another direction. As much as Isabelle tried to reassure him that she was fine, he had his doubts. Kay's death had hit her hard; he cursed himself for not being able to be there for her.

She'd told him later – when he was actually conscious again - what she'd been through. Gawain was aware of the impact Kay had had on her life; his simple kindness and offering of friendship had meant the world to her. Thankfully it wasn't in his nature to be jealous, for the time she'd spent in the other man's company and the closeness between them could be interpreted quite differently. Gawain, however, as did the other knights, knew that Kay's affection towards his much younger friend had been only friendly, almost brother-like. And Isabelle's behaviour towards Kay, Gawain thought with a widening smile, had been most definitely that of a pestering younger sister.

No wonder she'd been so distraught, Gawain mused on. She'd already lost a sister, and now a brother. He sighed. They'd all lost a brother in Kay. But as sad as Isabelle was, the knights were not. Of course they would miss him, of course they grieved for him, but Kay had died a good death. An enviable death. He'd died a free man, defending his home, after fighting a great battle. Gawain could only hope he would die like that.

He was careful not to tell Isabelle that, though, suspecting she would not understand.

He did not want to make worse the problems she already had with his life, worrying herself over his fate when he was away. He could see how pale her face was with anxiety when she was waiting for him to ride back through the gates, her posture slumping in relief when she spotted him. She always needed a moment to collect herself. He hated seeing her drawn like that, even though he could distract her quickly enough with a joke or a kiss. She was fine as long as he was in the fort.

Until the next patrol or mission was announced. Slowly but surely he could see her stop smiling, see a dreading tension appear in her eyes and around her mouth, which were too young to have lines. All he could do was reassure her, knowing it wouldn't work. She wouldn't show it to him for some reason, but he could see it nonetheless.

It frustrated him that he could not get her to open up to him completely. Some things she told him without inhibition or shame; other things she skirted around, changing the subject or telling him that she was fine.

He disliked prying people – Galahad was perhaps the only one he could stand it from, and even with him it depended on his mood – so he was reluctant to do it himself. If she wanted to tell him, she would come to him. It was a simple matter of trust.

He trusted her. He understood her history had made her reserved in some matters – as he was in others, such as discussing the future – and that she did not want to talk about those. He didn't mind; he knew it had nothing to do with him and he was sure of her love.

And yet, there was something else. How he had noticed it first he wasn't sure, but he could sense it. He was loath to think about it, had no idea if he was right in the first place, did not want to believe it of either of them. After all, she loved him and _he_ was his brother – not his closest friend, but still very much a brother.

He scoffed at himself for acting ridiculous.

"Coming?"

Gawain opened his eyes and turned his head to see Galahad standing next to the bath, holding out a towel.

Galahad rarely expressed regret about his outbursts, but over a decade of being his friend had taught Gawain to recognise an apology. He took the peace offering and stepped out of the bath.

They dressed in silence. Gawain could sense Galahad mulling over the words he'd shouted at him about having saved Isabelle, in his latest fit of temper. Gawain knew he hadn't meant it and had just turned around and walked away.

Gawain glanced at Galahad's clouded face after he finished lacing his boots.

"Hurry up," Lancelot ordered, walking towards the exit. "You're delaying my drinking."

Gawain and Galahad followed him. Gawain looked again at his friend, who walked beside him, and slapped him between the shoulders. Caught off guard, Galahad stumbled and cursed.

But the dark expression had vanished from his face. "Drinks on me?"

"Of course."

* * *

Arthur deliberately kept the meeting short, which was somewhat surprising to his men. "To conclude," he said, holding up an official-looking letter with a smile. "Good news." 

"The emperor has died?"

Arthur sent his second-in-command a berating glare. "The emperor is alive, Lancelot, and I daresay you'll find this news even better than your suggestion."

"Not bloody likely."

"What is in the letter, Arthur?" Dagonet inquired.

"Your discharge papers will be sent to me in within three months. They'll be here, without doubt, before the start of the new year," he answered.

It was silent for a moment.

Then Bors smacked his hand on the table. "YES!" he shouted and started laughing raucously. The rest joined in.

Arthur smiled and sat down while his men revelled in the good news. "Dismissed."

"Go tell Isabelle," Galahad told Gawain softly, briefly resting his hand on his friend's shoulder.

Gawain slipped away to his room, where he knew she would be waiting. She was folding his tunics into his clothing chest when he entered.

"What?" she said, after turning around and spotting the gleam in his eyes.

"Three months."

"Three months...what?"

"Three months of service left," he grinned. "The papers will be here earlier than the new year."

"You're certain?" she whispered, holding a tunic of his clutched to her chest.

"Arthur received word of it today," Gawain answered.

Letting out a squeal, Isabelle flung the tunic aside and jumped in his arms, showering him with kisses, her green eyes large and bright. "Three months! That's only twelve weeks!"

"I know, I know," he laughed.

"Twelve weeks is nothing!" she went on.

Gawain brushed her hair from her face and kissed her. The short walk from the hall to his room had been all he needed to make a decision. To hell with superstitions. There was no way he could jinx his future by speaking of it, not now, not anymore, with only three months left.

"Will you come with me?" he asked. "When I'm discharged? Will you come with me?"

"Gawain…" Isabelle breathed.

"I know we've never spoken of the future and I know I told you before that I would not keep you if you wanted to go somewhere else. You're a free woman…"

"Gawain…"

"But I've changed my mind. I'm not letting you go so easily anymore. I want you with me. Come home with me."

"Gawain…"

"Please."

Isabelle's eyes glistened. "If you had shut up for a moment, I could have told you already that of course I'm going with you. After all, I'm curious to see this beautiful Sarmatian land Galahad won't shut up about."

"Oh, that's all, eh?" he teased, elated at her answer. "You want to see Galahad's land?"

"Well, for what other reason could I be going?" she smiled coyly. "Learn more about the language, perhaps. My vocabulary is still very limited."

"But adequate enough when you're being cheated on at a horse market," Gawain snorted. "No other reasons?"

"Just one," Isabelle answered, bringing her face closer to his. "You."


	45. A Little Closer

**A/N: **Something I forgot to mention in the previous chapter: the new year began on March 1 back then, not January 1! Not that important, but useful for the timeframe.

Also, thank you so much for the reviews! I was really relieved that people still wanted to read this story :) I hope everyone got the response, and to Toboeshi: No more extraordinary pauses. Promised!

Enjoy!

* * *

_You step a little closer to me,  
__So close that I can't see what's going on  
__**- Damien Rice, Cannonball**_

**A Little Closer**

It was cold. Isabelle wrapped herself tightly in her thick woollen scarf. She had wrapped the thing around her head to protect her ears, but still they ached painfully. It was no weather to be strolling past the market stands, but she was in dire need of fresh air, having been cooped up in her room or in Berwyn's shop.

Arthur had cut down the knights' patrols and missions now that they were so close to their end of service. Isabelle could have kissed him for it, but there was one downside. It meant that Tristan was in the fort more often. She did not want to see him. She did not trust him after the incident in the training court. Part of her didn't trust herself.

Only nine weeks left. Then she would be free of him. There was no point in thinking about what was going on between the two of them – had been going on, she corrected herself. Not anymore. She was becoming quite adept at avoiding the scout. Mainly because she spent all of her time at work or in her and Gawain's rooms, that she had to admit, but still she considered it no light feat, taking into account his habit of sneaking up on people.

In nine weeks time she and Gawain would be on their way to Sarmatia and that odd, unhealthy cord that existed between her and Tristan would be broken. And not a moment too soon. God, how foolish she'd been, thinking he could simply be a friend. Nothing was ever uncomplicated between him and herself. From the moment they'd met Isabelle had known it was better to keep some distance, but first circumstances – she snorted at her careful naming of her interrogation – had made it impossible and then she had been unable to stay away, resulting in that one night and the horrible aftermath of it.

He had taunted her, spied on her, made her nervous, but most of all he had refused to just let her be. She thought they had solved everything when they had taken it out on each other and for a while they had seemed to be on better terms, save for a few odd things. Isabelle hadn't given it much thought at the time, having other things to occupy her mind, but she knew she hadn't imagined Tristan's hand stroking her cheek when she had been saved from the Saxons by the knights. Kay's bone-crushing hug had been that of a friend's; Tristan's simple and brief caress had been … something else.

The incident in the training court had been next, another anomaly in their truce. Her reaction to him had been entirely, _entirely_ wrong. She didn't want to think about it, but if she was completely honest to herself, she had to admit that he had sparked desire in her.

She must be insane. Isabelle pulled her scarf more tightly around her, stopping at a stand that sold pastries. She stared at the delicious looking treats, chewing on her lip. She convinced herself that if she pushed the memory far enough away, it would stay away. It was the only way.

She sighed. But leave it to Tristan to refuse to cooperate and stay out her way. It felt as if she had seen him more in the past few weeks than in all the months she had been here. She remembered the intensity of his glares and stares all too well and did not wish to be reacquainted with it.

"How much?" she asked Rhian, the baker's daughter, pointing at a piece of apple cake.

"One copper," the girl answered.

"I'll take one," Isabelle replied and slipped a hand inside the pocket of her dress to reach for her money.

An arm reached past her and dropped two coins in Rhian's outstretched hand. "Two."

Isabelle twisted her head and took a step sideways. "I don't need your –"

"Thank you, sir," Rhian said and handed Tristan two slices of apple cake.

"Here," he told Isabelle.

"I already said I don't need –"

"Take the cake."

Bridling at his order, Isabelle glared at him, but Rhian's curious eyes that flicked from one to the other made her reconsider. She accepted the cake and thanked him. Sidestepping him, she strolled on to the next stand, breaking off a piece of her cake.

To her surprise Tristan followed her, walking next to her in silence, eating his cake. Isabelle made sure she kept her mouth full with cake to avoid a conversation, but the treat was not going to last for long. She remembered the last time she'd stuffed her mouth like this; it had also involved Tristan; him and his calling her 'Esyllt'.

She shook her head. She had to stop thinking like this. Besides, it was a waste to use a delicious cake to avoid talking to the man. She couldn't help herself, however. Despite chewing slowly, she swallowed the last bit all too soon. Glancing to her side told her Tristan's cake had been eaten as well. The silence quickly grew uncomfortable.

"No scouting missions?" she opened, deciding on a neutral subject.

"Next week."

"Ah."

When he didn't elaborate, she continued, "Arthur has been giving you all a lot of time off."

"For the time being. The Woads will be on our backs soon again."

"But still, it's only for nine more weeks," she offered.

"Aye," he conceded.

They fell silent again.

Isabelle couldn't help but be curious. "What will you do when you have your papers?"

Tristan shrugged. "I'll see."

They'd reached the end of the market. Isabelle wanted to turn around to walk back on its other side, but she was stopped by Tristan's hand on her arm. "And you? Once everyone's gone here?"

She looked up at his face, which she had avoided to do the entire time of their conversation. Something tightened inside her as she gazed at the unusual and attractive features of the man she had known in the most intimate of ways, but who was now so distant.

He didn't let go of her arm.

She opened her mouth, hesitating. "I …er … Gawain asked me to …"

"Of course." There was nothing on his face.

"I said yes."

Her reply seemed to hover between them, until Tristan cleared his throat. "He'll be good to you."

Isabelle frowned at that strange answer, not knowing what to say. The heat of Tristan's hand was beginning to filter through the thick sleeve of her dress. He was standing not even a foot away from her. If she twisted just a little, she could press her nose into his chest. Shocked at herself, she took a step backwards.

Tristan let go of her arm, straightened his back, and said, "Well, goodbye," nodding at her. Before she could form a sentence, he was striding away from the market.

"Tristan!" she called, lifting her skirts from the ground and hurrying after him.

"I never thanked you," she said when he'd stopped and turned around, "for what you did for me, with Kay."

Tristan narrowed his eyes slightly. "I should not have been so harsh with you."

"No," she objected. "You were right. About Kay. And me. And what I was doing. So thank you, for your help."

He inclined his head. "You're welcome."

What she was thinking she didn't know, but Isabelle took a step closer, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek, her hand on his chest for balance.

Tristan failed to hide the surprise on his face when she stepped back, nor was Isabelle able to hide her blush over her rash action. "I mean it," she said softly. "Thank you."

Tristan recovered more quickly than Isabelle and for a moment he just looked at her. As usual, she was unable to tell what he was thinking. "As I said: you're welcome," he said finally.

"Well, I … er… I am going back to the market," she replied, taken aback by this turn of events, which she herself had instigated. She turned around and made her way back to the market.

* * *

Tristan watched her go, the scarf tugged back over her head and shoulders, the dress that suited her despite, or perhaps because of, its simplicity, heavy boots peeping out from under the swaying hem. 

He caught himself smiling. He doubted he'd ever seen her without those boots.

Turning around, he shook his head, the small smile vanishing. It was hard, keeping a proper distance from his brother's lover. His mouth twitched. That was what she was. His brother's lover. And he'd best keep that in mind.

He prided himself on his self-control; he could take this strain on it. But by the gods, it was hard. He'd still wanted her in the midst of her grief, tear-streaked and angry, lying under him, her mouth just inches away.

Exhaling, he ran his fingers through his hair. It was better not to think like that.

Isabelle had kept her distance from him since that day, until just now. He'd not been prepared for her kiss, however innocent it had been. It had sent such a surge of desire through him it was painful.

His face contorted in a sneer as he turned away from the market. Gawain's lover. His brother's lover. In a perverse way he was responsible for his own predicament.

Why couldn't he just let her be? She was happy with Gawain; any fool could see that. Why go to her when she so obviously did not want him to? He'd seen it the moment he'd offered her the cake. She did not want to be near him.

Why not simply keep his distance? He'd done it for months; the sparse moments he'd spent in her company had been torture, whether she was on her own or with Gawain.

Fleetingly he wondered if he was paying for his behaviour towards her in the cell.

"Tristan!"

He looked over his shoulder. Jols was strolling towards him. "Arthur want to speak with you. He's in the Hall."

Tristan nodded, pleased with the distraction that Arthur's orders would offer.

* * *

Isabelle hurried across the market, her interest in the many goods forgotten. She slipped through the crowd with ease, learned abilities remembered by her body even when her head was elsewhere. 

It had been a mere thank-you, a peck on the cheek. She had nothing to feel ashamed of. She had only wanted to express her gratitude.

Isabelle yanked her scarf back over her head, sighing irritably, suddenly exasperated with herself. The infinite well of excuses was drying up fast. It was time to stop fooling herself.

That little kiss could have been innocent – to most people it probably was, but they did not know the intention behind it. Isabelle knew. No matter how loud that voice in her head denied and protested, she knew. She'd wanted that kiss, however impulsive it was, she'd wanted to feel Tristan's skin under her lips.

Her steady pace faltered. "Oh, God," she moaned softly. Now it was time to feel guilty.

Isabelle suddenly saw with clarity that her earlier feelings of guilt were unfounded. She should have told Gawain about what had happened between her and Tristan, but all of it had happened long before they had come together. The liaison was nothing to feel guilty about. Her reasons for not telling Gawain were a different matter, though.

If everything between her and Tristan had been settled, done, and in the past, there would have been no reason not to tell Gawain about it. However, she hadn't told him, for the truth was that everything was not finished.

It had never been finished.

Isabelle's eyes burned with tears. Blindly she turned a corner and leaned against the wall, breathing raggedly. She pulled her scarf over her eyes so that passers-by would not see.

She was sickened by herself. How could she still want a man who had hurt her so? What was wrong with her? He did not want her, had made it appallingly clear, in fact, and she had a man who loved her, who'd asked her to come home with him. Who she loved.

Isabelle swallowed a sob. Gawain. He did not deserve this. Her chest ached with the effort to hold in a cry and with the thought of the man she loved. For she loved him, she truly did. It was impossible not to love him.

But Tristan was…

Utterly confused, Isabelle muffled a pained groan and slid down the wall, burying her head in her arms.

* * *

Gawain smiled absently at the laundry woman asking him for his clothes and waved at the pile in the corner. Usually he enjoyed a bit of banter with the woman, whose tongue was sharper than a sword. 

But today he couldn't be bothered. Last week had been the same, and the week before. He was preoccupied with Isabelle, who was exhibiting strange behaviour.

She jumped whenever someone spoke to her unexpectedly. She had not smiled in weeks and was staring at him with a strangely haunted and melancholy expression on her face.

She still slept in his room, in his bed. Her own room, next to his, went unused, as it had gone for months now. She had not moved out of the fort to find her own housing, as she had wanted to do after they'd returned from Lindum. He'd asked her why and she'd told him shyly she was saving it to set up a proper household. It had been a most unexpected but most welcome answer.

Of course, that had happened before she'd begun acting strange.

"Somethin' botherin' ye, lad?" Elspet asked, catching the knight looking at the empty bed. As it was still quite early, it was uncommon for the bed to be empty. Isabelle was often still fast asleep.

Gawain did not mind the curiosity of this woman, who'd been working in the fort since he was a boy. He knew her well.

"No, Elsie," he denied. "All is well."

The woman harrumphed and stuffed Gawain's clothes in her basket. Muttering some things about 'thinking she was blind' she sailed through the doorway to the next room, Galahad's.

All was not well. He'd tried to talk to Isabelle, but she had vehemently claimed nothing was wrong, only to lapse into brooding silence moments later. She did not sleep until the early hours of the night, though she retired at nightfall and pretended to be asleep when he came in, her back turned to him.

The only time they'd made love these past weeks, she'd surprised him with her desperation, clinging to him as if she were drowning.

She was up again before dawn.

Something was up. He suspected it, he could feel it.

Gawain just hoped he was wrong.

* * *

It was truly impossible to feed Seven, Isabelle thought. It was also quite remarkable how much that girl talked. Isabelle pushed the bowl of stew a little closer to the six-year-old, who took another mouthful – the first in ten minutes – but resumed her chatting before she'd even swallowed. 

Vanora had asked her to give her older children something to eat while she put the younger ones to bed for an afternoon nap. The older children had devoured their food and were now playing in the courtyard, but Seven, delighted at having Isabelle to herself for the first time in weeks, had decided Isabelle should be brought up to date on everything she'd done, seen, or heard, no matter how insignificant it was.

Isabelle had put on an engrossed face, but couldn't help that her thoughts strayed, as they had done repeatedly the past few weeks. As usual they revolved around two figures, one fair, one dark.

She knew she was getting herself tangled up so tightly she could not get out. She did not know _how_ to get out. Whether he'd sensed that she had realised how she felt about him, or for reasons of his own, Isabelle couldn't tell, but it seemed Tristan had picked up on her turmoil and acted on it.

She put her hands flat on the table to stop them from trembling. She felt hunted. Her stomach was in knots, and not just because of fear and guilt. Only this morning she'd been talking to Claire when the scout had passed by, golden eyes gleaming from under the obscuring black fringe. He had locked her eyes in his, his look so intense she'd felt a shiver run down her spine and had averted her gaze quickly, her heart beating erratically.

Incidents very similar had happened regularly in the last few weeks. Isabelle was fully aware that she was on a dangerous path, but she found herself unable to turn around.

She sighed and gave Seven's bowl another push, which stemmed the flow of words for a moment.

"You finish that, Seven," she ordered the girl. "I'll start washing up for your ma." Isabelle collected the abandoned bowls and cups and put them on the bar. The Tavern was completely empty at this hour of the afternoon, but soon soldiers would drop in after their shift and Isabelle wanted to make sure everything was tidied up for Vanora.

She walked into the kitchen to warm some water, poking up the fire and watching the flames lick the logs until the water was warm enough. After filling a large bowl, she returned to the bar, hearing Seven's voice chatting away once again. Her bowl of stew stood half-empty on the table.

The little girl had moved to another table. Isabelle's breath caught.

Seven seemed to be explaining a serious matter to Tristan, who was listening attentively, skinning an apple and slicing off bits he either ate himself or gave to the girl.

Isabelle quickly lowered her eyes when his flicked her way and put the bowl on the bar. She set to washing the cups and bowls, keeping her head bowed, every nerve aware of the man who was sitting less than ten feet away.

When he rose from his bench she jumped, a half-washed cup slipping from her hands and falling back into the bowl, spattering her dress. Determinedly, she scrubbed away at the cup, which was nowhere near dirty enough to deserve such a treatment.

A moment later Tristan had reached the bar and leaned his elbows on the bar. "No one here yet?"

This forced Isabelle to look up. "No," she replied. "But Vanora should be here soon."

"Could you get me some ale?"

"Of course." Isabelle quickly turned around and grabbed a mug before marching over to a barrel to fill it. She could feel his gaze on her and had to close her eyes for a moment to calm down.

When she turned back, Tristan had already put a coin on the counter. "Thanks," she mumbled and placed the mug in front of him. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, making some of the liquid slosh over their fingers.

Alarmed, Isabelle let go of the mug, but could not pull her hand back. She stared at his long fingers enveloping her wrist, and lifted her lashes.

He kept his head slightly bowed, his eyes on her hand, his thumb now caressing her wrist. There was something so intimate about that gesture Isabelle had rather he'd look her in the eye.

Her skin tingled under his touch. "Tristan…" she breathed. "Don't."

"If you want," he mumbled, but his thumb never ceased its caress.

Isabelle was unable to pull her hand back. She gripped the edge of the bar tightly with the other when his thumb slid to her palm and watched her fist relax, her fingers stretching slowly. She could hear her own breathing.

"I want…"

Tristan slowly looked up. "Aye?"

Only the bar stood between them, reminding them that they were in a public place. Goosebumps prickled her skin when Isabelle read in Tristan's eyes that this was the only thing stopping him.

She realised he'd allowed her to know this. He wanted her to know this. She gasped and jerked her hand back, shaking all over.

"Seven!" she snapped. "If you're done with your stew, bring me that bowl."

* * *

**A/N:** If you don't know who Damien Rice is, go hence and enlighten thyself. But you probably do; remember _The blower's daughter,_ the song from "Closer"? And _9 crimes_? That is Damien Rice. I bow to the incredible genius that is Mr Rice. 


	46. Ruin

**A/N: Well, so much for my promise not to have anymore extraordinary pauses between updates. I started my master's in September and it's taking up almost all of my time. But, finally, here's the next chapter, and I hope that the fact that it's huge makes up a little for the long wait :)**

**I want to thank penscratch, Maid Maleen, Smg1017, Poseidon's Chickadee, LegolasIsMine, Cicci Green, louchan1987, DriftingDreams and Kay Smith (tnx for the link! I'm going to need it for the next chapters.) for their reviews and messages!**

**Lots of love,**

**WoE

* * *

**

**Ruin **

Tristan had taken his ale and seated himself at the table again, leaving Isabelle with a confounding whirl of thoughts. The moment Vanora had arrived she'd fled from the Tavern, therefore missing the questioning manner with which Bors's lover had glanced at both her and the scout. Isabelle had headed straight for her room, determined to hide until she'd calmed down. An hour later she was still in there, perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the opposite wall, wondering how it had come to this.

Why did she want more than Gawain, the man who could lift her mood in an instant and have her laughing not even a moment later, who she did not have to explain anything to, but who took her just as she was, who only needed to give her a covert look to have her cheeks flush and her breath quicken, who had a smile warm enough for her to bask in from head to toe, who loved her and she him?

Why then, when she already had everything, did her thoughts still wander to that other, lingering always on the back of her mind? Where did that longing come from and why couldn't she just stop it? Was she even certain he felt the same way?

Absent-mindedly she straightened one of the blankets on the bed. Her hand stilled suddenly. Here she was, sitting on her lover's bed, thinking about another man. The bed she and Gawain had made love in countless times, where she'd whispered that she loved him, and he the same to her. Where she'd cleaned wounds too shallow to require a healer, where Gawain had comforted her after a nightmare and where she had woken him from his own fitful dreams.

Disgusted, she jumped to her feet. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind?

She knew it was time to pull herself together. She'd let this go on long enough and far enough. Whatever it was that existed between her and Tristan, she would have to put a stop to it. She was not going to risk losing Gawain.

Six weeks until the new year, until the discharge papers arrived. By God, Isabelle hoped the messenger would ride fast. She was teetering on the edge of a cliff, not sure if she could step back without aid.

She had to, she simply had to.

* * *

"Lancelot!" Vanora shrieked indignantly.

The dark-haired knight grinned triumphantly at the fuming redhead in front of him. She was such an easy target. Far too hot-tempered for her own good. She was one of the few women he counted as a friend, but he could not resist needling her. Or her lover, for that matter.

"What?" he drawled lazily. "If you're going to display it in front of me like that, you can't blame me for wanting to get a closer look." He tried to look indignant himself, knowing it would provoke an explosion of anger.

"A closer _look_?" she huffed. "If looking were all you did, I would not mind. Now keep your hands to yourself, or I will –"

"Will what?" he smirked. "Never turn your back to me again, so I cannot see that lovely, lovely –"

"LANCELOT!"

He gave up and burst out laughing. Vanora huffed again, smacked him hard on the arm, and sailed away. He knew he had better find his dinner elsewhere that night, to prevent the vengeful woman from doing something nasty to his food, but he reckoned he was safe with a mug of ale from one of the other barmaids.

Waving at Elen, he seated himself at a table and looked around the Tavern that was slowly filling with people. Elen brought him his ale after a moment and left after a quick flirt. Lancelot sat back and observed his surroundings, bringing his mug to his lips every now and then.

In six weeks time he would be allowed to leave this place. He and his brothers could leave the fort they'd spend the larger part of their lives in. Overcome by a heavy mood, his eyes swept across the place once more, hardly believing that he'd survived fifteen years of battle. His boyhood hopes of returning home had been squashed in the first year of his service. Death after death had left him with no illusion as to his chances of survival.

But now, with only six weeks ahead of him… little more than a month of service… it became steadily more likely that he would be able to get on his horse and ride away from Britain and her blue inhabitants.

What was left of his brothers would be riding alongside him. He spotted Bors, who entered the Tavern, making a beeline for Vanora, who informed him angrily of something. Lancelot had no doubt she was telling her lover of the second-in-command's behaviour, as Bors turned and glared fiercely in his direction. Dagonet was right behind his friend, gave him a clap on the back, and led him to the bar, where he ordered for the both of them. The two knights took a seat at the table where Tristan had been seated alone, starting a conversation with each other. Tristan was listening, but did not participate.

Lancelot sighed. He and Tristan had not been particularly friendly since their fall out. As far as Lancelot knew, Tristan had not listened to any of his arguments. Trouble was brewing; Lancelot was sure of it.

Tristan caught Lancelot's eye and for a moment they stared at each other, both knowing what the other was thinking.

Lancelot was forced to look away when Galahad plummeted onto his bench, wondering out loud why he was sitting alone. Lancelot shrugged, but accepted the youngest knight's offer of another drink. They were joined by Gawain, who took a seat to Lancelot's left, looking chagrined.

"What's wrong?" Lancelot asked.

Gawain waved his question away with a careless "Nothing," but after a short silence he added, "Women."

"In general, or one in particular?" Lancelot inquired further, though he could guess the answer.

Gawain huffed. "Isabelle. I don't know what the hell is wrong with her. And she's refusing to tell me."

"Where is she now?" Lancelot mumbled, one eye on Tristan.

"Off with Clara again," Gawain answered. "I swear she's getting worse every time she talks to that strange woman." He shook his blond hair out of his face. "Isabelle told me – one of the few things she's let me know about recently – that Clara can't settle here. She wants to go home – aye, the home Isabelle says she does not have anymore," he added, seeing Lancelot's confused look.

With an exasperated sigh he continued, "She feels she has to help Clara, but I'm starting to wonder whether that woman can be helped at all. And if she keeps dragging Isabelle into misery along with her…"

Gawain's voice had turned threateningly.

To divert him, Lancelot suggested, "You don't reckon it's got anything to do with Maurus?"

"Maurus?" Gawain growled, so low that Lancelot realised this was not a good topic. "What's he got to do with this? He's dead." His fingers clenched around the mug Galahad put in front of him.

"Aye, I know that, but we never did find out who had hired his services, did we? She could be worried."

Gawain made a vague sound and tilted his head back, taking a large swig from the mug. "It is a strange story, I'll give you that. There hasn't been a single attempt on Arthur's life since we dealt with him. The murders in the other forts stopped too; Arthur's been in close contact with the other commanders. It's as if whoever was behind it knew that we were closing in on them," Gawain mused.

"Well, it won't have gone unnoticed that we killed Maurus and half of those in his service," Galahad remarked dryly.

"Aye, but still… the dux's strange behaviour towards Arthur and Junius… That reprimand they got was entirely uncalled for."

"Personally," Lancelot interjected lightly, seeing Gawain's mood deteriorate even further, "I don't give a damn about Roman machinations. We stopped them from killing Arthur and that's all I'm interested in. Let them scheme and plot, I'm sure they won't try anything again."

"We did give a fairly clear warning, didn't we?" Gawain agreed, chuckling slightly.

"So, whatever's wrong with Isabelle must be about Clara and Clara alone, am I right?" Lancelot asked.

Gawain's eyes lifted from his mug and stared across the Tavern. "I hope so."

Lancelot followed his friend's gaze and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter cold. Gawain was staring directly at Tristan.

* * *

Claire was fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, her head bowed, strands of lank, dark hair falling in her face. Isabelle sat next to her, gazing at the woman with a mixture of pity and vexation.

Nothing she said or did seemed to cheer Claire up. She refused to make something out of her life here – her free life, thanks to Isabelle, but Claire was not grateful. Not that Isabelle expected her friend to get on her knees, but this depressing attitude was not quite what she'd expected. No matter what, her current situation was a definite improvement, but Claire appeared wholely unable to shake her doleful mood.

Isabelle felt sorry for the unhappy woman, but the misery that hung around Claire was beginning to get on her nerves, which in turn made her feel guilty for not being more understanding. But with her own problems these days, there was only so much Isabelle could take. Which, of course, enhanced the guilt. She felt she had to do more for Claire and so she let her speak about home, about her ideas on how to get back, despite the fact that neither woman had any clue about where they would have to go.

When Claire asked her, Isabelle admitted she missed her parents and her brother and that it must be horrifying to them not knowing what happened to her and her older sister. And of course that was true, but it had been eight years, Isabelle could not help but think. Her parents would think her dead and even if she did return, she would not be the same. They'd lost a nine-year-old girl; how would they ever cope with the woman she'd become?

She was still their daughter, Claire argued. "If you have the chance, you must go back. You cannot leave them in uncertainty."

Isabelle was loathe to respond to dilemmas like this and replied, "But I cannot go back, so this is all pointless. For you too," she added sternly, regretting it when she saw Claire flinch.

"You've got to start living here, Claire," Isabelle added more gently. "You're making it so hard for yourself."

"I can't, Isabelle," Claire whispered. "I can't. I don't want to – this place, it's full of violence and blood and pain. I don't want to live here. I don't understand how you can bear it."

"There's more to it," Isabelle said softly. "Aye, it's a brutal world and mistakes have much harsher consequences than in our own world, but it's still the same. There's friendship and love, new life and success, and laughter... If anything, I think people live their lives more intensely."

Claire shook her head incredulously. "'More intensely?'" she snorted. "So, you're telling me you enjoy the intensity of waiting for Gawain to return alive or dead?"

"That's not fair," Isabelle growled, annoyed with the other woman for putting her finger exactly on her own problems.

"But it is true," Claire snapped back. "Don't feed me that nonsense about the joys of our life here. You hate it as much as I do."

"No, I don't! I dislike some parts of it, but that doesn't stop me from making the best of it. At least I am living a life," Isabelle sneered, "instead of sniveling in a corner, moaning about things that are _never_ going to happen!"

Claire gasped, tears springing to her eyes, and she jumped up from the hay bale they were both sitting on. Lancelot's stallion gave an irritated snort at the sudden movement.

"I'm sorry, Claire," Isabelle said quickly and sighed. Sometimes she felt so much older than the other woman, even though she was five years her junior.

"I need to go and see if Pia has any chores for me to do," Claire replied stiffly and turned her back on Isabelle, who cast her eyes heavenwards in a silent plea for help.

Drawing up her knees to her chest, she watched Claire stalk out of the stables, feeling chilly now that the warmth of another body next to her had vanished.

She sat in the dusky air of the stables for a while, watching the white clouds of breath coming from the horses' noses and the dust playing in the small streak of sunlight peaking through the door Claire had left ajar.

Heaving a last sigh, Isabelle clambered off the bale when she began to get very cold and headed for the way out, only to bump into Jols as he came in, carrying a saddle and a handful of what looked like reins.

"Hello, Jols," Isabelle greeted him. "Everything all right?"

"'Afternoon," the squire answered. "Just busy."

"Need help?"

"Well, if you can spare the time…" Jols said. "You don't need to be with Berwyn?"

"No, he could manage by himself today."

"I see. Well, in that case, would you mind putting this saddle with the others in the tack room and getting the dirt off of them?" Jols asked. "I have to see if I can get this fixed," he explained, waving the reins at her.

"Of course."

"Just leave the saddles to dry. I'll continue with them when I get back." Jols handed her the saddle and after thanking her he ducked through the door.

Isabelle walked to the tack room at the back of the stables, hanging the saddle over a beam, next to another. There was only so much she understood about horses and their gear, but she had seen Jols or one of the knights clean their tack often enough. After a quick stroll to the kitchens, she returned with a bucket filled with warm water and placed it next to the table.

On one of the shelves she found cleaning cloths and after dipping them in the bucket and wringing them out carefully, she wiped one of the saddles clean, frowning when one of the more stubborn stains did not gave way so easily.

She walked to the shelves to find a brush, her back turned on the entrance. The moment she felt eyes on her, she whirled around, finding Tristan leaning in the doorway, his gaze undecipherable.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, taken aback. The last thing she wanted was to deal with Tristan.

"I came to talk." Tristan shook his head, making it impossible for Isabelle to see his eyes through the fringe that fell in front of them.

"I don't want to talk to you," she told him forcefully.

Tristan lifted his head and raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "Then why are you in the stables?"

"What?" Isabelle snapped, offended by his illogical argument. "The stables are not your territory. Clara wanted to talk to me in private, so we came here."

"I don't see her." With a quick look around that was so subtle Isabelle would have missed it if she hadn't been so fixated on him, he stepped into the room.

"She already left."

"And you stayed." The door closed behind him with a soft click.

"I don't appreciate your insinuations," she replied crossly. "I only stayed for a moment longer to have some time to myself. And then Jols asked – "

"Better places for that than the stables," Tristan remarked, walking further into the room, towards the shelves where Isabelle was still standing.

She glared up at him, despite the nervous clenching of her stomach. She was no fool, Tristan had obviously come here with a purpose. "If you have something to say, Tristan, just say it. I'm in no mood for games."

Tristan's dark eyes glided over her face. "Good," he muttered. "No more games."

Uncertain as to the tone of his voice, Isabelle demanded, "What do you mean?"

Tristan reached out his hand and rubbed a lock of her hair between two fingers, taking a step closer at the same time. His knuckles whispered against her cheek, making her shiver.

She turned her head away from him and stepped backwards. "Don't."

"You keep saying that."

"Then listen!" she retorted, her voice high with strain, but Tristan only moved to close the distance she'd created. The rough pads of his fingers now stroked her jaw, moving closer to her lips.

Isabelle took another step backwards, but all it did was encourage the man opposite her into drawing closer. She bumped into the table with her backside and looked up alarmed, realising he had manoeuvred into the spot he wanted to have her. This was not the Tavern; they weren't in public now.

"You can't…" she began feebly, but fell silent when he closed the remaining distance between them and grazed her neck with his lips, breathing in her scent.

She should stop him, Isabelle thought. This was wrong. But her eyes closed and her lips opened when she felt his mouth taste the skin of her neck, her head lolling sideways and backwards when he nipped her throat.

"Why are you…" she tried again, but her voice was cut off when Tristan's mouth closed hungrily over hers, demanding immediate entrance, which she granted eagerly, moaning at the sensation of his tongue against hers, his beard rasping almost painfully against the tender skin of her face.

Tristan pressed her harder into the table with his body, hip tot hip, thigh to thigh, his hands gripping her waist tightly to keep her against him.

Their kiss was too urgent to hold any tenderness. All Isabelle could feel was hunger, a craving that needed to be satisfied.

She only sensed he'd put her on the table when her backside landed on the flat surface and her knees were pulled apart to allow Tristan to stand between them. She hooked one leg around his hips to draw him closer, eliciting a low groan from him.

He kissed her even more deeply now and all Isabelle could do not to go under was kiss him back with equal force, bruising her lips as well as his and sending every nerve ending in her skin into a frenzy.

Her body jolted when she felt Tristan's hand on her leg, above her knee. The cold air that kissed her skin told her that her dress had been bunched up around her thighs. Her breathing stopped when his hand moved smoothly up the tensed muscles of her leg, not to where she wanted him, but up her hip and around it, pushing her to the edge of the table, pressing her so firmly against him she could feel he wanted her as badly as she him.

Isabelle broke away from him to fill her lungs with air, but Tristan grabbed the back of her head and resumed his kiss so thoroughly her head started spinning. His hands now tugged impatiently at the collar of her dress, tugging it down over her shoulders to expose more skin. Isabelle's moan reverberated through the cold and empty room when Tristan caressed her shoulders and breasts with his lips and hands. Half dazed, her own fingers found the many buttons and toggles of his overcoat.

Tristan shrugged the coat from his shoulders when she had undone all of them and dropped his belt to the floor, hastily returning to his exploration of Isabelle's skin while she pulled his shirt from his breeches, her hands like little lumps of ice on the warm skin of his stomach. He hissed and his muscles twitched, goosebumps forming everywhere when she ran her cold digits over his spine. He bit her collarbone in retaliation, but it only urged her to quickly slide her hands down his body to keep them busy with the laces of his breeches.

Tristan ruthlessly worked his way past the lacings of her bodice and her undergarment and did not cease until he had exposed as much of her chest as he could. Isabelle pulled his shirt over his head and pressed herself against him, tugging his head down for another kiss. He groaned, his hands sliding over her arms and body, while Isabelle fought him over control of their kiss.

She felt her dress get hitched up even further and then his hands were back on her thighs, this time wasting no time. Isabelle leaned back on the table, eyes closed and lips parted, watched by Tristan for a moment before he kissed her jaw, slowly descending down her neck, halting at her breasts and then further down again, until she lay on the table, wound like a spring.

Isabelle wasn't sure what it was that made her stop. Maybe it was her hands. They'd woven into Tristan's thick, black hair and she'd combed through it with her fingers, until she'd suddenly grabbed air instead of matted locks. It didn't feel right. She could always wrap two hands entirely in Gawain's hair.

It was the thought of Gawain that made her freeze. Her eyes snapped open.

Sensing the sudden change in her body, Tristan pulled back.

Isabelle looked at her body, clothed only around her middle. She sat up straight and hurriedly began to rearrange her dress.

"Isabelle…"

"Oh dear God," she whispered appalled.

"Isabelle, look at me." Tristan's fingers lifted her chin when she refused to. Reluctantly she looked him in the eye, ashamed of her actions and scared to be drawn back in at the same time. "Stay," he asked.

Her chest hurt, as if it was slowly being ripped in two. Tristan's face was so close, his hair even more dishevelled than normal, the weathered skin flushed, and his breathing still quickened.

He saw her resolve weaken and pressed his lips against hers. Isabelle gasped when her desire for this man flared up again, but she could no longer close herself off from the presence of the other man in her mind, Gawain.

"No!" she cried, pushing Tristan away. "Leave me alone!"

She slid off the table and turned away from him, heading straight for the door, trying to cover herself with what was left of her dress.

Her hand was suddenly jerked away from the door latch and her back was slammed against the wall beside it, Tristan's mouth descending on hers once more. Isabelle found herself returning the kiss, her gathered thoughts scattered in an instant.

But inevitably, just as Tristan had occupied her mind when she was with Gawain, the blond knight refused to be put aside and made her pull away from the scout. She pushed against his chest and turned her head. "For God's sake, Tristan, stop!" she cried out.

Tristan moved backwards a little, but kept her against the wall between his arms. Isabelle slumped against the wall, trying to regain her breath and suppressing a desperate sob. She looked up at Tristan, who'd not averted his eyes from her since she'd stopped him, and looked her steady in the eye.

"Do you love him?" he asked, taking in her miserable face and dreading the answer he already knew.

"Aye, I love him," she answered, hiding her stinging eyes behind their lids and exhaustedly leaning the back of her head against the wall.

Tristan remained silent. She expected him to turn away. After a while Isabelle opened her eyes again and looked at him. He had not moved. Though he managed to keep his face under control as usual, she could clearly see his next question in the dark gold of his eyes.

"No, you can't ask me that," she said. "Please, don't ask me that, Tristan. Don't be so cruel."

"I have to know," he replied, a distinctly ragged undertone to his deep voice.

"No, you don't," she whispered back anxiously. "You have no right to ask me that."

"I left it like this once," Tristan said, "months ago. I won't do that again."

At that comment a jolt seemed to shoot through Isabelle. "You did not 'leave it like this'!" she hissed fiercely at him. "What you did was make a mockery of the trust I gave you, trust I do not give easily. You made a mockery of everything you'd said to me to convince me to confess to Arthur. You made a mockery of me!"

She paused, breathing heavily. "I didn't know how to define what I felt for you, but you made damn sure you threw all of it right back in my face! So don't you dare ask me _that_ question now, Tristan!"

"I know that," Tristan answered. She pulled away from him when he wiped a tear from her cheek. "But I have to know."

"Don't!" she choked out and threw herself to the right, towards the door, to escape the arm that kept her against the wall. Tristan snatched at her and grabbed her arms.

With a cry of rage she struggled to get free, but she was in too much turmoil for a concentrated attack. Tristan pinned her against the wall. "Listen to me!" he barked, finally losing his calm as well.

"No! Let go of me!"

With a curse Tristan seized both of her wrists and pressed them against the wall. Isabelle hissed in pain and anger. Her scarred back chafed against the rough stones of the wall, her dress providing little protection. She could hear Tristan breathing forcefully through his nose, his lips clenched together in an attempt to get a hold of himself. His eyes took in her tousled appearance.

His grip tightened around her wrists. Isabelle gave a fruitless jerk to free them, but Tristan leaned in closer, pushing his knee between her thighs. Isabelle gasped. Her wrists and back hurt, but the rest of her wanted more. More of this, more of him, pressed against her so closely it hurt. She shut her eyes when suddenly she knew. This was what it was between her and Tristan. Pain and longing, mixed together and woven into a chain that kept her linked to him.

All will to fight seemed to leave her suddenly. "Don't," she whispered again, weakly this time.

She sensed Tristan's piercing stare through her closed eyelids. "Tell me," he demanded.

Isabelle averted her face. "No."

"Aside from Gawain," Tristan persisted. "What do you feel for me?"

"Go away!"

He pressed himself harder against her. She grimaced in pain.

"Do you love me?" It was barely audible, but Isabelle picked up on it anyway. A slight note that was dissonant with the rest of his unyielding voice. A hint of pleading that provided the last push over the edge.

She began to struggle again. "Isabelle, stop it!" he commanded. She almost slipped past him, but he hauled her back against the wall, making her groan in pain. Tristan's hands gripped her face, compelling her to answer.

"Aye, I love you!" she shouted. "You bastard! And I hate you for it! I hate you for everything you're doing to me!" she continued, her eyes wide open and ablaze, tears pouring down her cheeks. "I hate you for being everywhere I look, for making me remember that night just by looking at you, for making me think of you! I hate you for trying to cut whatever kind of bond there was between us and I hate you even more for failing! I hate you for not letting me forget you!"

Tristan silenced her tirade with a possessive kiss, claiming all of her mouth. She bit him, hard enough to draw blood, but he bit back mercilessly. Isabelle twisted her wrists in his grasp and dug her nails into his skin. His grip loosened for a moment and Isabelle used the opportunity to lash out at his face. With a growl he smacked her hands away and tore at her clothing, painfully aroused, while Isabelle repeatedly panted, "I hate you," but tried to undo the laces of his breeches with shaking hands at the same time.

Their coming together was rough and sudden. Isabelle wrapped her arms and legs tightly around Tristan and buried her face in his neck. His hands bruised her hips and her back was scraped raw. She could feel the scars on his own skin under her fingers, drawing blood from his back as the wall drew blood from hers.

They did not last long. Tristan's body held Isabelle against the wall, as they both tried to catch their breath, reason slowly seeping back into their minds. Isabelle's legs slid down to the ground, wobbly and heavy, while Tristan created some distance between them by pushing himself off the wall with one arm.

Their eyes met, shock over how far they'd pushed each other evident in both pairs. Isabelle needed more distance, more space, and Tristan obviously felt the same way, as he stepped back from her. They redressed in silence.

Isabelle missed a number of buttons and some of the laces were broken. She made herself as decent as she could, before looking up at Tristan, who'd turned around and picked up his shirt, but now stood motionless, his shirt in one hand, running the other dejectedly through his hair. The scratch marks she'd made contrasted unpleasantly with his skin.

"Tristan…" she whispered.

He sighed and slowly put on his shirt, before turning back. His eyes clouded when he saw the damage he'd inflicted on her. He ran his tongue over the broken skin of his bottom lip, his back stinging as if to remind him he'd not come out of this unscathed either.

He'd crossed a line. _They'd_ crossed a line. One he'd never intended to cross. He'd hurt her again. A flash of her back whipped raw made him blink.

"We've gone too far," Isabelle said softly, her voice breaking.

She was right.

Tristan would not deny that he wanted her, even now, after what they'd just done to each other. And her eyes told him she'd not lied when she'd said she loved him. It made him want to hold her against him and kiss every bruise he'd left on her, to soothe and apologise.

But he wouldn't. He knew, deep down in his gut, that eventually they would hurt each other again, physically or mentally. It was just a matter of time. They were bound to each other in too many ways, too close. Pain, love, desire, fear, anger…it drew them together and drove them apart.

Maybe it would have been possible at another time, when he had not been marked by war and she not already hurt by others. But that did not help them now, not when they'd scared themselves and each other, when love and hurt alternated in a destructive manner, not when they were both of them already too dented and scratched to be able to handle this. The way things were, the way they were, they were not what the other needed. They would kill each other instead.

"We can't…" he began, but did not know how to word his thoughts.

"I know," she answered. She looked at him in silence, then opened her mouth as if to say something, but paused. "I won't leave Gawain."

Tristan clenched his fists. Gawain. His brother-in-arms, a friend all these fifteen years long. And yet part of him now wished he'd never seen him in his life. Tristan had witnessed the bond between his brother and the woman he loved. It was different. It might not have as tight a hold on Isabelle as the bond between her and Tristan, but it was strong in another sense.

It did not have the anger and the pain that linked Isabelle to Tristan. It was healing instead. Gawain, as tainted by his bloody way of life as he himself was, but yet so different. No less bloodthirsty on the battlefield than himself, Tristan knew, but somehow Gawain could put it all aside to live. He'd saved Galahad from pining away when the pup was nothing more than a boy and Tristan understood that the connection between the two friends was what kept Gawain whole. It was his way of survival.

Tristan also understood that his own way of surviving his life was the reason he now stood facing Isabelle, ending something that had never truly begun.

It didn't quench his resentment towards his brother-in-arms, though. "Gawain," he muttered.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. "Don't even go there, Tristan."

His already precarious mood worsened at the sight of the woman he didn't want to let go defending another man. He let out a humourless laugh. It offended Isabelle even further.

"I can't believe you," she bristled. She straightened her dress and said, "I don't want to do this anymore. I've had enough." She turned away from him, the door already open when he said her name.

She turned around. "What?" she cried out. "What, Tristan? What do you want from me?"

He didn't know.

She watched his silence for a moment, before heaving a tired sigh. "Exactly," she said softly.

Isabelle moved as if to walk away, but turned back one last time. "Why did you do it, Tristan?" she asked. "You've never told me that, why you helped Dag heal me, why you became a friend to me and more, and then…turned away."

Tristan ran a hand over his face. "You told me your story. Me, the one who'd put you into that fever in the first place. I didn't know why. But I knew there was innocence in you, behind that hard mask."

Isabelle's lip trembled. "You saw me. And I let you. That's _my_ reason. I trusted you and you betrayed it."

"And then there was Gawain," Tristan remarked bitterly.

"No. Gawain was already there, from the first time I ever stepped into this fort," Isabelle said. "I didn't know what to do, about either of you."

"Vanora told me," Tristan admitted.

"Why did you do it?" Isabelle asked again.

Tristan didn't want to answer. He'd kept his reasons to himself all this time. They were an integrate part of himself, of who he was, of why he'd become who he was.

"You owe me that much at least."

He studied her face, taking in every little detail, knowing this was the last time she'd be this close to him. His answer, the truth, would be the last time he could hurt her. It would end everything between them.

"I couldn't…" he began. It was harder than he'd expected. "You were…You came too close. I had to. I couldn't…"

"You couldn't what?" she wanted to know. "Love me? Be a friend? At least be gentle?"

"I couldn't let you get close to me."

Isabelle took a step back, unveiled hurt on her face, before steeling herself. "Well, congratulations," she said slowly. "I didn't." She swung the door open and stepped through it.

Tristan closed his eyes, but opened them again almost immediately. This needed to be finished. He needed to see the woman he loved walk out of his life. And she did.


	47. The Lion and the Wolf

**A/N: **So, there I am, shopping in Den Bosch, and I walk into the H&M store. Normally I don't visit the men's department very often, being a girl and all, but I have a brother who refuses to shop more than once a year. He needs help. So I thought I'd look around a bit. And thank my lucky stars I did, because suddenly there he is, on a poster. No, make that 6 posters. Mads Mikkelsen is a model for H&M. I nearly twisted my neck. And I have never spent so much time in the men's department as I did that day.

Enough with the drooling! I wanted to thank you all for always leaving me a note to tell me what you think. The relationship between Isabelle, Gawain, and Tristan is, like BornWithAFever said, very fragile, and you can look at it in very different ways. Even I am not always sure what to think! I think it's great that you always let me in on your views; it really helps me to keep writing. So, big, big thank you!

As for the questions and guesses (June Birdie, LegolasIsMine, Poseidon's Chickadee) about what's going to happen, I'm going to be a tease and not answer them, as usual, but some of them will be answered in this chapter and some of them have to wait a little longer. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations, and of course I wish the same for Atanvarne06, Kay Smith, Shpadana Zizais, Maid Maleen, and Cleopatra32003.

Now I will stop talking (finally). Happy Christmas everyone!

p.s. LegolasIsMine: I'm just as big a nerd as you when it comes to Wuthering Heights. I love it!

* * *

**The Lion and the Wolf**

Isabelle hurried through the streets, on the verge of crying. She wasn't sure what she was so upset about. That she'd given in to Tristan after all, that he'd managed to pry her deepest feelings from her, that it had all gone wrong, aye, all of that. But most of all, her tears threatened to fall because she finally grasped the nature of her relationship with Tristan. All these months she'd known him, she'd never been able to read him. He hadn't allowed it. She'd been confused, unsure, and in doubt.

Now she knew. She'd asked, and he'd answered. She knew it was for the best this way. She and Tristan were not…They were wrong for each other. He needed someone else than her and she needed Gawain.

Isabelle bit her lip. Why couldn't she just have known it all along? And not after all this. Everything was a mess now. Though she supposed it was better late than never. Vigorously she rubbed her hands over her face to free her head of the tangle of thoughts that unrelentingly shot back and forth in her mind.

Despite the turmoil and the hurt, Isabelle experienced a sense of relief. It was over now, truly over. She had defined what she felt for Tristan. It wasn't gone, far from it in fact, but after this final confrontation she could handle it. Aye, the way things had turned out still hurt, and she doubted her feelings for Tristan would ever completely disappear. They were part of her, as her love for Gawain was. But she had chosen to be with Gawain.

Isabelle lifted her face to the cloudy winter sky when the first snow of the year began to swirl down and blinked her tears away. She took a deep breath of bitingly cold, fresh air.

It suddenly seemed so simple. She would take a bath, fix herself up, and go find Gawain. She would tell him the truth. She was still unbelievably scared to do so, to risk losing him, but she knew she had to do this. That last loose end, that very important last loose end needed to be tied up before she could truly step into a future with Gawain.

She jumped up the steps to the entrance of the main building, ignoring the blatantly curious look the guard gave her when he saw her state of dress. Her relief seemed to grow with every step and she couldn't stop the smile that tugged at her lips. No more doubt, finally! She took a left turn into the corridor that led to both her and Gawain's rooms. The door was ajar, but the thought that someone might already be inside did not register in her mind. Isabelle pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Gawain turned around from the window he'd been standing at. Isabelle's smile vanished. His arms were folded, his back rigid. Isabelle took in his set face, his flaring nostrils.

"Gawain…" she breathed.

His foreboding manner scared her. He did not speak, but his eyes, narrowed into dark blue slits, took in her appearance. Isabelle became conscious of how she must look. Tousled hair, dress not buttoned up, swollen lips, reddened skin. Smiling.

Gawain lips whitened, so tightly did he clench his jaw. She'd never seen him this angry. Horror-struck, Isabelle realised what was about to happen. "I have to tell you something, Gawain," she said quickly, attempting to save the situation.

"I already know." His voice was clipped, without a trace of his normal, lilting rumble.

"No, you don't," she replied urgently. "You don't understand."

"Save it," he snapped. "I just want to know one thing. Did you or did you not just come from the stables with Tristan?"

Isabelle's face drained of colour. "How…" she choked out. This was not how it was supposed to happen.

"Galahad heard you," Gawain told her coldly. "You and Tristan? Is it true?"

She wanted to say no, more than anything, but there was only answer she could give. "Please let me explain," she tried. "It's not –"

"Is it true?" he cut her off, the last word ending in a growl.

"Aye," she whispered. "But…"

She did not dare go on. Gawain cursed loudly, glared so fiercely at her she backed away from him, and stormed out of the room. "You had better be out of my sight when I get back!" he snarled over his shoulder, slamming the door shut.

"Gawain!" Isabelle cried. She clasped her hand over her mouth in shock, tears pouring down her face the second time that day.

* * *

"I don't know," Bors shrugged. "The pup probably got scared of some mouse and needs Gawain to get rid of it." 

Lancelot's ale went down the wrong hole in his throat when his obedient mind created that image for him. Bors laughed and thumped his coughing friend hard on his back, which did nothing to help. Dagonet and Arthur chuckled. A while ago Galahad had returned from the stables where he'd gone to get a saddlebag he'd left behind. On his return he'd asked Gawain to come with him and either man had yet to come back.

Save for Tristan, who'd left even before Galahad, all the men had been there, waiting for their supper to arrive, Arthur included.

Lancelot had expressed his utter shock at Arthur's decision to leave his precious papers alone. Arthur had looked at him with a pondering countenance, commenting casually that he was thinking about mixing the knights' guard duty with that of the Romans'. Lancelot, being second-in-command and all, would surely not mind being the first to enjoy standing guard half a night with one of his esteemed Roman colleagues.

The dark knight's teasing expression had slipped from his face, replaced by a nasty glare.

After the laughter had died down, the knights and their commander had sat in relaxed companionship, until Galahad had gone to get his saddlebag and returned to ask Gawain if he could speak with him.

Lancelot wiped his mouth, still grinning over Bors's dig at the youngest knight.

"He did look quite serious," Arthur remarked.

"Maybe not a mouse, but a rat then," Bors suggested flippantly.

Lancelot stopped grinning. His eye caught Dagonet's. Galahad had been very tense, his face white. He had even jutted out his chin, something he only did when he was very upset. "What could be wrong?" he asked.

"Wrong?" Bors cut in uncomprehendingly.

"I don't know," Dag answered.

The two knights rose from their bench, Dag asking, "Where did they go?"

"Galahad's over there," Arthur said, just as Galahad turned around the corner and headed their way.

"You all right, pup?" Bors inquired.

Galahad didn't look it, but he muttered, "I'm fine," and held out his mug to be filled by Maren, the nearest wench. He tilted his head and gulped down its entire content.

Maren raised an eyebrow, scoffing, "One more?"

Wordlessly Galahad gave her his mug again, searching his pocket for coin.

"Galahad?" Arthur pressed.

"Just leave it, Arthur," the knight responded. "I'm fine."

"Where's Gawain?" Lancelot persisted.

"I said leave it!" Galahad snapped.

More than used to Galahad's temper, the others went back to their conversation, knowing their youngest brother would come around eventually.

Vanora and one of the kitchen helps brought them stew-filled bowls that were covered with bread. Lancelot thought about trying his luck with the obviously new girl for a moment, but decided to let it go. He wasn't in the mood; there was something that made him uneasy, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It wasn't the girl; she was lovely enough, a bit too innocent for the Tavern still, but Lancelot knew she would get over that in a few weeks.

No, Lancelot thought, after he'd thanked the girl and watched her walk back to the kitchens, it had nothing to do with her. He turned his attention to his food, listening to the conversations between the knights, which had turned quiet now that the men had their food to be occupied with.

Galahad did not participate. He kept to himself, staring at his bowl and eating seemingly without tasting the excellent stew.

"Hmm," Bors began and swallowed. "There's Gawain. Good for him, he wouldn't want to have missed this stew."

Lancelot looked up to see Gawain coming across the courtyard, but he wasn't walking towards the Tavern. He stalked in the direction of the stables, not even glancing at his comrades, who were all watching him.

Suddenly the knight tensed up, just as Tristan rounded the corner.

Lancelot's eyes skipped from Gawain to Tristan, who didn't seem to have noticed Gawain, but rather wasn't paying attention to much at all. The expression on Gawain's face as he looked at the scout made Lancelot jump up from his bench.

He and Dag cursed at the same time.

"Stop them, Arthur," Lancelot urged his commander.

Galahad, who had been watching his closest friend with concern, turned to them in disbelief. "You knew?" he shouted.

"Knew what?" Bors demanded. His jaw suddenly dropped. "What the hell…" he began, just as Gawain roared Tristan's name, his face livid.

Tristan's head shot up, finally seeming to notice the other man. He too seemed to radiate anger all of a sudden. Warily, he watched Gawain cross the distance between them.

Arthur assessed the volatile situation correctly and leaped to his feet, only to have Dagonet step in his way. "You need to let this happen, Arthur."

"I won't tolerate any fights between my knights," Arthur replied.

"If you don't let them settle this, it will always stand between them," Dagonet pressed. He looked at the two men in the courtyard. "This should have been settled a long time ago."

"TRISTAN!" Gawain bellowed.

"Gawain…" Tristan hissed.

"You knew I loved her, you piece of filth!" Before anyone could do anything, Gawain's right fist landed on Tristan's jaw.

The bystanders looked on in shock as Tristan retaliated immediately.

"Enough!" Arthur ordered, his eyes quickly scanning the number of witnesses. "I can't let this go on. Stop them."

The knights moved into the courtyard to separate the enraged men, who'd now turned against each other completely, without holding back. Ducking another blow, Tristan grabbed Gawain's collar and said something to him, his voice too low to be heard by anyone other than who it was meant for.

Gawain's reply was not so restrained, however. "Did you think I hadn't noticed it?" he shouted, jerking himself loose from Tristan. "The way you look at her?"

Lancelot could hear Arthur and Bors's stunned response of, "What?" to his left. So it had finally happened, he thought, as he looked at his brothers, one fair and one dark, standing within an inch of each other, both furious enough to inflict real harm on the other.

Bors stepped bodily in the way of the two knights, shoving them apart none too gently. "What the hell is going on here?" he yelled. "Have you gone insane?"

"Stay out of this, Bors," Gawain warned him, switching to his mother tongue in his rage.

Bors snorted, not moving an inch. "Give me one good reason why I should let you pound our scout's brains to pulp."

Gawain did not hesitate in telling Bors exactly why. The older man's eyes widened and he turned to Tristan. "Is this true?"

Tristan wiped his mouth, smearing blood on his hand. He looked Bors in the eye, but kept silent. "I see," Bors mumbled, and without further ado he stepped back.

Gawain lunged at Tristan immediately, delivering another vicious punch, before Galahad pulled him back, restraining him on Arthur's command. Dagonet kept Tristan back. The expression on both men's faces could only be described as murderous.

"Lock them up," Arthur ordered. "I'll deal with them when they've calmed down." He looked at his second-in-command. "In the meantime, you can explain all of this."

* * *

Tristan observed his surroundings. It had been a while since he'd been locked in a cell. In his younger years he'd got himself in trouble on a regular basis, until his growing reputation had prevented others from daring to offend him. The need for punishment had stopped when he'd no longer had opponents to teach a lesson. 

The last time he'd been down here had been when Isabelle was locked up. With a sigh he sat down on his straw sack and leaned his elbows on his knees. He moved his sore jaw. Gawain had always had a mean right punch.

He knew the other man was a few cells away from him, in solitary confinement just as he was. They'd been here for hours, which meant that Arthur was truly angry and had every intention of keeping them down here much longer than was needed for them to simmer down.

Tristan accepted the inevitable and settled against the stone wall. The stinging scratches on his back reminded him instantly of why he was here.

He could still smell her, taste her. He could also still see her back as she walked out on him. Gods, he was an idiot. To go after Gawain like that. His own brother-in-arms. Over a woman.

He shook his head. If it were just any woman, neither man would ever have let it get that far. Tristan had seen the rage and hurt in Gawain's eyes. The man's feelings were no less than his own. And _he _had suffered a betrayal of the worst kind. That of the woman he loved and a comrade of fifteen years. Tristan couldn't blame Gawain's reaction to seeing him.

He wasn't so sure of his own reaction. He'd stayed in the tack room after Isabelle had left, needing the time to compose himself. Jols had come in moments later, greeting him and asking him where Isabelle was, oblivious to the scout's mental absence. So, she'd really been in the stables to help Jols.

"She left," Tristan had told Jols and headed out of the stables himself.

The cold winter air and the falling snow had helped to clear his head, but not much. He was still wrapped up in their parting, when he'd suddenly heard his name being shouted across the courtyard. He'd looked up and found Gawain, marching towards him. He knew.

And for the second time that day, he'd lost all common sense. He hadn't cared how illogical and unreasonable it was. More than anything, he'd wanted to hurt the man responsible for Isabelle's departure.

Tristan leaned forward on his straw sack and placed his head in his hands, the utter stupidity of his actions finally sinking in.

It was a long time indeed before the door to his cell opened. "Come with me," Arthur ordered curtly, his face taut. Tristan followed his commander to his chambers, where Lancelot was already waiting with Gawain. He could see the blond knight had trouble restraining himself at the sight of him. The hours of confinement had certainly not calmed him down.

Arthur seated himself behind his desk, Lancelot standing to his right, leaving Gawain and Tristan in front of them.

"I already know what happened today and I also know this has been going on a lot longer," Arthur began.

Tristan looked at Lancelot and knew the second-in-command had finally divulged what he'd suspected for a long time. He could hear Gawain's breathing strain even further at Arthur's comment.

"Aside from the fact that it's absolutely beyond me to understand what in God's name you were thinking, Tristan," their commander continued, "I find your conduct in the courtyard appalling. I mean both of you," he snapped.

"Two of my knights, fighting over a woman like drunken idiots. Unbelievable. You have been fighting together for fifteen years – how could you have let this get so far?"

Gawain did not answer, but Tristan sensed his anger was not lessened one bit. He did not answer either.

"I received news today," Arthur said. "Your discharge papers will be brought personally by Bishop Germanius, who was a close acquaintance of my father's. It is an exceptionable honour, which you have ruined."

Personally, Tristan did not care who brought his papers, as long as they were brought, but he could see this was important to Arthur. Uther Castus had been a just commander, who had died when Arthur was only a boy. A friend of his coming to bring their discharge papers was indeed something to look forward to.

"But more importantly," Arthur said, now a distinct growl in his voice, "what am I to do with you the remaining weeks? The way things are between you now, I can't very well send you on patrols together. You will be staying in –"

Gawain looked fiercely at his commander. "I refuse to be put aside like that, Arthur."

He turned his head for a brief look at Tristan. "I would never allow any harm to befall one of my fellow knights, not after all these years we've been through."

"That is –"

"But _that_," Gawain cut Arthur immediately off. "That is all you can expect of me right now."


	48. A Terse Talk

**A/N: As always I am very grateful to you all for taking the time to review my story. And (again) apologies for the long wait. I'm writing as much as I can between classes and assignments, because this story is pushing me to finish it. No worries, I'm not giving up on it!**

**Love, WoE

* * *

**

A T**erse**** Talk**

When Vanora burst through the door to Gawain's room, she found Isabelle sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, her face blotched and wet, new tears still pouring down her cheeks. It hadn't taken the woman long to realise what had happened to make Gawain attack Tristan like that, and Gawain's words shouted across the courtyard had removed any remnant of doubt. She hadn't understood much of the tirade that had followed in Gawain's native tongue, but she hadn't needed to.

"Oh, Isabelle," she sighed. "What did you do?"

In response, Isabelle only began to cry harder.

"Hush now, love," Vanora quickly said. "I did not mean it like that. Tell me what happened."

After a few sobs and hiccoughs, Isabelle began to talk. "I was in the stables… and Tristan… we – we… oh, God, we shouldn't have… but at least now I know… And I went back and Gawain was already here. He knew – he knew… he wouldn't let me –"

Vanora made soothing noises, squatting down next to the younger woman. "Calm down, Isabelle," she said gently, stroking the distraught girl's hair. "You're not making any sense."

Isabelle cleared her throat, rubbing her hands over her eyes. "I have to get my belongings. Gawain didn't want to – to see me when he came back." Isabelle's eyes welled up again.

Vanora snorted. "That'll be a while. Arthur had the both of them locked up."

Aghast, Isabelle looked at her. "What happened?"

"What always happens when two very headstrong men get in each other's way."

"Oh, no, not that too," Isabelle groaned, hiding her face in her hands.

Vanora clucked her tongue. "I think I've got a pretty good idea about what has happened today, Isabelle, and surprise and innocence don't suit you in this tale."

Isabelle looked up at Vanora's stern tone.

"The way you've gone about things, you should have seen this coming a long time ago."

Isabelle shook her head. "I thought if I just didn't think about it, it would go away."

"Really? Did it?"

"No, but maybe I should've tried harder."

Vanora snorted again, even louder this time. "Why are you fooling yourself, lass? You and Tristan were a disaster waiting to happen. If you two had just faced each other instead of making cow eyes at each other, all of this would've been over a long time ago, and you would not have hurt Gawain so."

She made a disapproving sound when Isabelle was reduced to sobbing again. "Enough crying, love, now tell me exactly what happened."

* * *

Vanora managed to extract the entire tale from Isabelle in fits and starts and judged it best indeed to gather Isabelle's things and settle her elsewhere for the time being. Unlike Arthur, she didn't believe that a few hours of solitary confinement would calm down Gawain sufficiently. 

"You've got money, don't you?" Vanora asked. When Isabelle nodded, she said, "You can rent a room near the Tavern for a while, until things have settled down."

Because it was winter and the roads were bad, it was quiet in the fort, so they had no trouble finding a decent room. Isabelle dropped the bag with her clothes on her bed, sighing. Vanora carried the rest of her meagre possessions. There were her weapons, some small things she'd bought in the market, but not much else.

Isabelle didn't care much for possessions. She lived in her skin, more than in a home. Gawain had been her home, she realised. She pressed a hand against her stomach as if in pain, her face contorted. She hadn't needed much else, but now… To have a home… To have family and not be lonely… No, she was just reacting to what happened. She only wanted Gawain.

She had to find a way to make things right, but she didn't know how. He'd been so, so angry. And after Vanora had told her about the fight in the courtyard… Isabelle dreaded the effects this would have on the group of knights. Vanora had said harshly that she should have thought about that earlier, to which Isabelle had had no answer but that the angry redhead was right.

She didn't know why she suddenly had to think of Kay. Her grief over his sudden death had lost some of its sharp edges, but now his large and demanding presence occupied her mind as he had occupied her attention when he was still alive.

It was because she was acting like a coward. Isabelle knew it without a doubt, she could feel his disapproving glare burning into her. Running away like a rabbit from her problems wasn't going to solve anything, she could hear him say.

But a few weeks later, that was exactly what she did.

No matter how much she wanted to, she didn't dare approach Gawain. Not when he was this angry. Vanora had told her he didn't speak a word to Tristan either, though he fulfilled his duty to protect his comrades as always. All of them.

Isabelle had endured many an enraged glare from Galahad these past weeks, who naturally supported Gawain blindly, and she had not expected anything else. Bors's behaviour hurt her more. To him, she'd come between two of his brothers. He turned his back on her every time he saw her.

Lancelot just stared at her with an ambivalent look his eyes, sadness, resignation, and anger present at the same time. He didn't come up to her. Only Dagonet, who she'd seen only once, had placed a hand on her shoulder, after which the tears had sprung to her eyes and she'd fled to her rented room.

Then there were the people's whispers, the malicious smirks, the covert remarks… When Andrivete asked her to accompany her on a visit to an acquaintance of hers, Isabelle took the offer with both hands.

Now she was being rocked gently in Andrivete's carriage, dozing off. Andrivete sat opposite her, staring absent-mindedly out of the window. The Thracian woman had been tense from the moment they'd left. Their departure had been rather hasty as well. Isabelle could sense there was something behind this sudden visit, but she couldn't imagine what it could be. She was too preoccupied with her own troubles to truly try.

It was only a few weeks before Gawain and the others would be discharged. The papers would be on their way by now. Isabelle didn't know how long Andrivete had planned to stay with her friend – she had been very vague about it. Isabelle knew it was possible she wouldn't be there when the much desired messenger would arrive. The reluctance to leave that came with that knowledge wasn't enough to chase the need to flee away, however. Her situation in the fort had become unbearable.

It had caused a paralysing indecisiveness, which had allowed her to sit quietly in Andrivete's carriage and let herself be carried off, taking the easy way out, as she could hear Kay scold her in her mind.

She hadn't talked to Gawain since he'd told her to get out of his room. She hadn't spoken to Tristan either, save for the one time he'd entered Berwyn's little shop. The old merchant had swelled up with pure indignation, but before either man could say anything, Isabelle had yelled, "For God's sake, Tristan, leave me alone!" She'd stormed out of the shop into the street, not sparing a thought on what the scout had actually come to see her for.

Isabelle sighed, closing her eyes. Servilia Claudius's estate was a thirty-mile-ride to the southwest. They would arrive there in the evening. Servilia was the widow of a retired army officer who'd died almost a year ago. Andrivete had told Isabelle that they'd become friends when Servilia and her husband had been staying in Rome, but not much else.

It was already dark when they reached the villa, cypresses surrounding the driveway like silent watchers, blacker than the night sky. Isabelle woke from her slumber when the yellow light of torches shone through the carriage window.

Servilia Claudius was waiting on the door steps. Isabelle estimated she was nearing her forties, a respectable age, but a lifetime of expensive cosmetics and leisure had preserved her beauty. Her hair was curled into dark gold ringlets, falling elegantly over her right shoulder. Andrivete greeted her warmly, clasping her hands.

Isabelle received a more formal greeting, reciprocating it mindlessly. As soon as it was appropriate, she excused herself to go to bed, exhausted. After a few days of Servilia's excellent hospitality, however, Isabelle began to recover from the stressful happenings in the fort. Servilia's husband had obviously left her a well-to-do woman and she saw to her guests' every need.

For the first time in days, Isabelle was beginning to pay attention to the two women's conversation. She stretched out her arm to pick a grape from an engraved platter, lounging on an elbow as if she belonged with the decadent Roman women.

"No, no," Servilia said. "Don't you remember? Cornelius inherited this estate from an uncle when he was twenty. I never particularly warmed to Britannia, not like he did, but after his death I couldn't leave here. We'd moved here permanently after his retirement. We'd spent some of our best times here. Despite the weather."

Isabelle's grape stuck in her throat. Cornelius Claudius. "Forgive me, Servilia," she choked out. "But what happened to your husband?"

"Oh," Servilia answered, her face falling sadly. "He was quite old. We were spending a few months in Eboracum as guests of the governor, last winter. Cornelius's heart gave up."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Isabelle mumbled.

"Thank you."

Andrivete and Servilia resumed their conversation when Isabelle did not press any further. She took her goblet of wine, swallowing the contents in three large gulps.

_Sixteen-year-old Anwen was sneaking silently through Maurus's hallways and rooms. She enjoyed __eavesdropping on everyone she could get near to. She loved this small sense of freedom as she could move where she wanted to go, without restriction._

_It was only too easy this night. None of the other assassins were in the main house and the servants could always be evaded with ease. A shadow, a curtain, an alcove, that was all she needed. _

_She slipped through an open door into a guest room, just before a laundry maid walked briskly into the hallway. There would be immense trouble for her if she got caught, but that did not concern her. Nothing mattered to her. _

_Tonight would be an exceptional possibility. Briar would not be prowling in front of his master's bedroom as usual. He was on assignment. Which meant that Anwen could try to get so close to Maurus that she could eavesdrop on him. _

_He would kill her if he found her.__ Her heart was beating excitedly. _

_It took her only a little while to reach his rooms__. She slinked past them into the garden and crept to the entrance, where silk curtains blew softly into the room. Every now and then the curtains parted far enough for Anwen to see the two persons in the room._

"_I am sending you to Eboracum," Maurus said. "This is a job that requires finesse. I don't want you to stand out."_

_Amarante's hoarse laughter drifted into the garden. "Not stand out? This must be the most difficult job I've ever received." _

_The curtains parted again, revealing Amarante's tall and statuesque posture, her dark beauty. "I will need time to get close to him."_

"_There is a young manservant in his household. Use him," Maurus ordered. _

"_Certainly__."_

"_There can be no sign of murder. Claudius is a war hero with too many friends in the army," the master of the estate continued._

_Amarante laughed again. Anwen could see her pick up a peach from a fruit bowl and toss it to Maurus. "Don't worry. I still have some pulverised peach pit. Dear old Cornelius won't know what hit him. Nor will anyone else."_

Isabelle put her goblet back on the table. Three months later she'd been sent to the Wall to kill Arthur. At the time she hadn't been able to see a connection between those two assignments, but it was obvious now that Cornelius's death was part of the series of murders in the Roman army that Arthur and Junius Livius had discovered last summer.

But why? What was the connection between all those men?

* * *

Tristan did not want to talk to Gawain in the stables, not in the place where he and Isabelle had… That would not go down well with Gawain. So he waited until his brother-in-arms had finished grooming his mare and stepped outside. 

"Gawain?"

The blond knight already looked tired, but the lines in his face deepened even further when he saw who addressed him. "What?"

"We need to speak."

Gawain gazed levelly at the scout. "Is there a mission?"

"No."

"Then I see no need for a conversation," Gawain replied coldly, turning and walking away.

"We have been in service together for fifteen years. Our papers will be here in a fortnight. Will you not at least hear what I have to say?"

This was a low blow, but Tristan really didn't care. Gawain turned back, his jaw working. It was easy to see he wanted nothing more than to tell the scout to go to hell, but Tristan had called upon the unbreakable bond between the knights. Gawain would not ignore that. "Very well, what do you have to say?"

"Walk with me."

Gawain shook his head, but fell into step with Tristan, moving away from the stables as dusk settled over the fort.

"I didn't notice her, when she first arrived at the fort," Tristan began. "Not the way you did."

Gawain's head made a jerking movement, as if he wanted to look at Tristan, but couldn't.

"When we captured her and put her in that cell, I could tell it was difficult for you, knowing she was something else than another pretty, young barmaid. I only saw her as a potential murderer, who'd assaulted my commander. I used dirty tactics on her, hurting her and taking care of the injuries I had inflicted, to confuse her and pry the information I needed from her."

Gawain said nothing, shocked into silence by the amount of words coming from the scout's mouth. Tristan was not comfortable with it either, the effort it cost him making him curt and clipped, but he felt this was the only way they could make something of the mess they'd created.

"She frustrated me with her defiance and I became curious. I wanted to know what it was she was refusing to tell, not just because it was information I needed for Arthur's safety. It was foolish of me, because when she finally told, I could not leave her to her fate. I helped Dagonet nurse her back to health, with every intention to be done with her once she recovered. She stayed in the fort, however, and even came to see me. There was… I did not understand, but I did not seem to make her uneasy. I enjoyed her company."

Tristan looked at Gawain, who was staring straight ahead, his fists clenched. "Back then I already knew of you and her. The attraction between you two was… obvious. But then, after she'd stayed with me during a storm, I stopped enjoying her company. I desired her. It was ridiculous, yet I couldn't put a stop to it. After Kallias the Greek wounded her, things escalated and I bedded her."

Tristan heard an irate snort. "I can't believe this!" Gawain snapped, glaring at the scout with both disbelief and anger. "I've heard enough."

"Gawain," Tristan said quickly, realising he was about to lose him. "She had good reason for not telling you this."

"Really? Enlighten me," Gawain growled.

"I hurt her. Again. I made it viciously clear to her that I had just taken advantage of her."

"What? You cruel son of a –" He paused suddenly. "So, this is why you two fought. Why you suddenly kept your distance from each other," Gawain deducted. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"I had to," Tristan answered. "For myself. I distanced myself. So I watched her become close to you, which had been waiting to happen. But I could not keep my distance for long."

Tristan sat down on the stone bench in the courtyard. Gawain remained standing, his back straight as an arrow.

Tristan ran a hand over his face. "And eventually, it happened again. Only with a different outcome. She walked away from _me_ this time. She walked away from me to go to you, Gawain."

There was no answer.

"She loves _you_."

The younger man sighed and sat down next to him. "If she loves me, then what is it that exists between the two of you?"

"I do not know. It is there, some form of bond that I can neither explain nor undo." He stared at his hands, but he heard Gawain's long intake of breath, and the deep sigh that came afterward.

"You lied to her," he said softly. "When you told her you took advantage of her, you lied."

Tristan looked at Gawain. "I lied."

"Does she know that?"

"Aye, since that day in the stables."

Gawain's face contorted slightly when the reference sank in.

"She went back to you. She wanted you."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Part of me wants her for myself," Tristan admitted. "But whatever there is between us, is twisted. There is too much pain and betrayal there. Isabelle needs happiness. I cannot give that to her. You can."

"Tristan –"

"You need to know what stands between us, between the three of us. I will not deny the bond between her and me, but it's you she wants to be with."

Gawain leaned his hands on his knees and stood, his back towards Tristan, staring at the dark red sky in the west. Slowly he turned around, extending his arm.

Tristan got up, clasping the wrist of his brother-in-arms. "Thank you."

Gawain tightened his grip. Tristan had no trouble reading the look in his eyes. There was a glimmer of understanding there, but not forgiveness. He'd failed.


	49. Andrivete Revealed

**A/N: Thanks to Maid Maleen and Kay Smith for reviewing! I hope everyone enjoys the next chapter.

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Andrivete **Revealed**

Isabelle had been staying with Servilia Claudius for a week and she was getting bored. It had been freezing brutally for days now, making it almost unbearable to go outside. She'd had enough of her confinement inside, with its endless card games and embroidery; even the elaborate suppers were getting on her nerves.

She wandered aimlessly through the hallways of Servilia's villa, fleetingly studying each room as she passed by. She knew that Servilia's bathroom was somewhere in this part of the house, so she decided to take another bath. She finally understood the need of Roman women and their maids to bathe and pamper. They had nothing better to do all day.

Isabelle chastised herself for being unfair. Servilia was very kind to entertain a guest she didn't know, a guest who knew what had truly happened to her husband. But Isabelle could never tell her of Cornelius's fate.

Because her mind was preoccupied with Servilia's husband, Isabelle's ears picked up on the name immediately. She froze in mid-step. The voices came from a room further down the hall. She knew she was invading her hostess's privacy, but after listening to a few sentences she became too curious to turn away.

"Well, I still don't understand all this secrecy, Andrivete," Servilia said.

"I don't have anybody I can trust," Andrivete answered. "Not anymore," she added softly.

"Yes, I was very sorry to hear about Gervasius's death," Servilia replied gently.

There was silence for such a long time that Isabelle knew without a doubt that Andrivete had not been referring to her deceased husband. But what could she have entrusted to Kay that she could tell no one else?

"Servilia, are you… Are you absolutely certain that Cornelius's death was natural?"

Isabelle's jaw dropped. What did the Thracian woman know? Had she invited her to come along for a purpose?

"He was old, his heart failed," Servilia answered, audibly nonplussed. "What could be unnatural about that?"

"Don't play fool," Andrivete snapped. "I know you're aware of what Cornelius was involved with in Rome."

Isabelle heard a sudden bustle and guessed it came from someone standing up very quickly. "What are you talking about?" Servilia demanded.

"Those suppers of Julius Septimus he always went to?" Andrivete continued urgently. "Those were held at my house. As Julius's mistress, I was always there. I know what those suppers were about, Servilia, and I have seen Cornelius there many, many times."

"Are you threatening me?" Servilia cried.

"No," Andrivete responded immediately. "No, not at all. I know that Cornelius kept you in the dark about most of it, to ensure your safety, but I wasn't so lucky. You should know that Julius died of poison. It looked as if his heart failed. Some time later, two of my servants died the same way, after they'd eaten the supper I'd sent back to the kitchens, because I wasn't feeling well."

Thankfully, Servilia's horrified moan hid the gasp that escaped from Isabelle's mouth. Julius Septimus, Arthur's predecessor, and Cornelius Claudius had both been murdered. They had both been in the army and they'd both been involved in these mysterious suppers.

Isabelle's mind worked at top-speed, but she was still missing too many pieces of the puzzle. Cornelius's death had been executed by Maurus's poison mixer, but on whose orders? And was it connected to Julius's death? How could it be? Julius had been in Rome at the time of his death, Cornelius in Eboracum, worlds apart.

Eboracum. The Dux's strange reaction when Arthur and Junius Livius had told him of the series of murders sprang to mind, and Isabelle's own suggestion to explain it. No commander of an entire Roman province would allow the murder of his own soldiers, but what if he was overruled? Such an order could only have come from Rome, the city where Julius was living at the time. But who would want to deliberately weaken Britannia's military forces?

A sudden suspicion crept into Isabelle's mind. Who said the murders had only taken place in Britannia? Julius might have served in Britannia for some years, but he was in Rome when he was murdered. And as far as Isabelle knew, Cornelius had never served in Britannia at all.

Isabelle and Arthur had always assumed that what was going on did not extend past Maurus and the unknown person he'd received the order from. Was it possible that Maurus had been just a small part of some larger plan?

What plan could that be? Was someone outside the empire trying to weaken it? That would certainly account for the murder on Gaius Avitus, Arthur's late neighbouring commander, and the attempt on Arthur himself, which had sparked Arthur's decision to go south to Maurus. But if that were the case, why would they kill retired officers? And common soldiers had fallen prey to the killers as well. That didn't make sense at all. And what of the connection between Julius Septimus and Cornelius Claudius through these suppers that Andrivete had been present at?

Why had Andrivete even come to Britain? She'd lived in Thracia and Rome for most of her life.

"Who would want to poison you?" Servilia breathed.

Andrivete snorted. "Isn't it obvious? Whoever poisoned Julius, of course. Why do you think I left for Thracia with Gervasius? To escape. I went back to Rome after his death, because I had nothing there anymore."

"Why come to Britannia, then? Surely not just to see me."

"I had to. Rome was still not safe. Cornelius had already left for Britannia, and some more had fled, but those who'd stayed were all dead. Tiberius had choked during a feast, Marius had died from an infection after he'd broken his leg, Antonius had fallen overboard during a journey to Sicilia and drowned, and Rufus had simply wasted away."

"Do you think… arsenic?"

"Most likely."

"Dear God," Servilia sighed. "I am glad Cornelius decided to spend his last years here."

"Don't be daft, Servilia," Andrivete replied harshly. "Cornelius fled, just like the rest of them."

"No, no, he would have told me about all this," Servilia denied.

"Don't you understand how powerful his enemies were? What he got himself involved with?"

"Not as well as you, apparently," she shot back.

"I don't know everything, but I know Cornelius wanted reform, just like Julius did," Andrivete said. "That is what got them killed."

"You don't know this for sure."

"Well, I intend to find out. I fled Rome, and then Burdigala, Londinium, and then Eboracum, and I found out a week ago not even the Wall is safe. I can't run any farther. I've already reached the end of the world."

"So now what? You intend to turn and fight? What makes you think I'll allow you to that here? For that _is_ why you came here, isn't it?"

"It is," Andrivete admitted. "And you'll allow it, because our enemies are coming north and once they know that the widow of Cornelius Claudius still lives here, you won't be safe anymore either."

"Don't be ridiculous, Andrivete, you're don't have a shred of evidence for all this. Besides, who is going to tell them?"

"They're already in Eboracum, they have been all winter. One innocent remark about you or Cornelius is all it takes," Andrivete told her.

The voices rested. Servilia was mulling over Andrivete's words.

"What are you going to do?" Servilia asked after a while.

"First I am going to see what kind of information I can get from my young companion," Andrivete answered, determined.

Isabelle's blood ran cold. She pressed herself more firmly against the wall.

"From her?" Servilia scoffed. "She's only a girl."

"That's what she seems, yes. But there is more to her than meets the eye. I've listened to the gossip in the fort. She came out of nowhere months ago, claiming to be a friend of Artorius's family, but no one knew who she was. My chambermaid Celia told me that when she'd first seen her, she was recovering from a fever brought on by lashes. Her back was covered in scars. She was given a room in the knights' quarters, and she's stayed there ever since."

"Among the knights?" Servilia inquired, aghast.

"Yes, but it's only one knight that is her lover. The others treat her as if she requires protection. But from what, I wonder. "

"Why did she leave her lover behind, coming with you? I can tell you're not particularly close."

Andrivete chuckled. "It seems another knight was vying for her attentions, and she couldn't resist."

"No!"

"I agree, quite lowly behaviour. One would expect that family friends of Arthur would be of higher standing, if only moral standing. But Isabelle mingles with all kinds of folk in the fort; in fact, I believe she prefers the company of commoners. She even spends half her time doing chores for an old merchant."

Isabelle's cheeks burned with shame, hearing her mistakes discussed so callously. She gritted her teeth at Andrivete's hypocrisy. The Thracian woman suddenly seemed to have forgotten her liaison with another Sarmatian knight. Isabelle entertained the thought of spilling that particular bit of information to the refined Servilia, but quickly turned her attention to the conversation again.

"She called upon a favour I owed her to free one of my slaves, which I was obliged to do," Andrivete said. "She knew this girl, but from where I still haven't been able to decipher. The shock of the attack on the fort left the girl somewhat simple, and Isabelle will never tell me herself."

Isabelle's breath echoed raggedly in her head. This woman was closing in on all her secrets.

"But most importantly," Andrivete continued, "there was an attempt on her life during the summer. Some stranger to the fort threw a knife at her. She was nearly killed."

"My God!"

"Now, what is so important about her that would warrant her death?" Andrivete mused.

"You're grasping at straws, Andrivete. All of this could easily have nothing to do with what we've discussed just now."

"Perhaps. But I'd like to be sure."

* * *

Isabelle was seething with anger. Andrivete had tricked her. She did not particularly fear what the other woman could do to her; she suspected Andrivete had no inkling of Isabelle's background and severely underestimated her. 

It was the fact that she now knew without doubt that Kay's lover had a hidden agenda and planned on using Isabelle for her own purposes that was the cause for her anger. Of course, her own stepping foolishly into that trap added fuel as well.

But she was also fearful. If Andrivete were correct about her enemies coming to Hadrian's Wall and if Isabelle's suspicion that Julius and Cornelius's death were connected to the deaths on the Wall, it would mean that whoever was coming to the Wall was a danger to Arthur as well.

She considered sending a letter to Arthur, but she could not trust anyone in this household as a messenger. Claire wasn't here, she'd been left behind at the fort. Isabelle now knew why. Andrivete had successfully isolated her. The risk that a letter would fall in the wrong hands was too great.

Her only option was to go back herself. But she dared not. She could not face Gawain.

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't."

She was acting like a coward, which made her despise herself. The idea of putting Arthur deliberately in danger repulsed her. He'd been too generous towards her to deserve that. She knew what she had to do, no matter how reluctant she was. She had to take action immediately.

She divulged her wish to return to Servilia and Andrivete at supper that night. However, it seemed Isabelle had underestimated Andrivete as well. The woman's quick tongue manoeuvred Isabelle in such a position that to insist on leaving would have greatly offended Servilia.

"Of course," Isabelle smiled forcedly. "I'd be happy to stay. Thank you for your generosity, Servilia. You're too kind."

Isabelle locked eyes with Andrivete as Servilia waved her compliment away. She smiled kindly, but Isabelle detected triumph in the green eyes nonetheless. She smiled back, before taking a sip of her wine, biting back her frustration.

This was going to be more difficult than she'd anticipated. Now that she'd decided to return, she wanted to go as quickly as possible, fearing she would be too late. She considered telling Andrivete the truth, but the woman's interest in her secrets troubled her, not to mention the fact that she'd proven herself to be untrustworthy.

Isabelle was going to have to find a way to get away from Servilia's estate and vowed to start that same evening. She prowled the corridors at night and found a way out a few nights later. The trick was to get out of the house. Once outside she could climb the wall and be on her way.

She had not brought any clothing but dresses, but a quick stroll into the laundry room provided her with a servant's woollen trousers and tunic. She _had_ brought her own boots and cloak, which she was going to need to face the weather.

After supper, four nights later, she excused herself to go to bed, claiming fatigue. Once the house had settled for the night, she changed into her stolen clothes and walked into the garden quietly. It was surrounded by the villa at all sides, locking her in, but Isabelle aimed directly for one of the two large trees, climbing in nimbly until she was eye-level with the red-tiled roof. She scooted further onto a branch, and stepped onto the roof as silently as she could.

Thankfully none of the tiles slipped and she reached the other side of the roof without problems. She climbed down, hanging on to her fingers for a moment, before landing on the ground soundlessly.

Several small buildings were built against the outer wall – it was, after all, meant to keep people out, not in. Without difficulty Isabelle climbed on top of one, her eyes scanning the grounds for guards, but they were only stationed at the gate. She hopped onto the wall and jumped down the other side, running into the night.

It was going to be a long walk, thirty miles to the Wall, without a horse, all alone, and she wanted to create as much distance as she could between her and Servilia's estate.

She pulled out the only weapon she'd brought from the fort, because she hadn't been able to help herself, but now thanked herself for it. The dagger gripped tightly in her right hand, Isabelle set out for the Wall.

She kept the road in sight always, but never came too close, wary of followers that might be sent after her and of other travellers. She was a woman alone and she had to be very careful.

She walked the rest of the night, her cloak wrapped tightly around her to keep the cold at bay, and found a hidden and sheltered spot to sleep when the sun rose. At dusk she continued her journey, until the fort came into view at dawn. She walked to the main building, but the guards would not let her enter, not recognising her under all the dirt.

"I need to speak to Arthur," she claimed. "It's urgent."

"He's not here."

"Then where is he?"

"That's none of your business, peasant. Leave."

Too tired to argue, Isabelle turned around and headed to Vanora's house, tears from exhaustion in her eyes. The redhead cried out in shock when she saw her. "Isabelle!"

"Where is Arthur? I have to see him immediately," Isabelle said, swaying on her feet.

Vanora reached out to steady her. "He's gone with the knights. They're meeting up with a caravan to escort it to the fort. There is a bishop coming, with the discharge papers." Vanora's eyes lit up.

"A bishop?" Isabelle frowned, confused. "It's a _bishop_ that's coming to the Wall?"

"Aye, he was a friend of Uther Castus, and he wanted to bring the papers to his friend's son personally," Vanora nodded.

"A bishop," Isabelle repeated. "But that doesn't make any sense."

Were her suspicions wrong after all? A bishop had nothing to do with military forces. He could not have anything to do with the enemies Andrivete had spoken of.

"What happened to you? You look a fright. Where is Andrivete?"

Isabelle forced herself to pay attention. "I left. I had to speak to Arthur, but Andrivete wouldn't leave yet. When is Arthur coming back?"

"I don't know, I've been expecting them for days." Vanora took in Isabelle's haggard appearance, the dark circles under her eyes. "Let's get you cleaned up and into a bed. You look like you haven't slept for days."

Robbed of the possibility to speak to Arthur immediately, Isabelle's determinacy waned, her eyes already drooping. By the time Vanora had helped her get clean, she was so worn out, not a word of protest came from her when she was put into bed.

* * *

Tristan felt relief. In mere moments the fort would come into view and their fifteen years would be fulfilled. They'd found the Roman bishop on the road, a day's worth of travel further than scheduled. Tristan had eyed the carriages with distaste. No wonder the man was so slow. The wheels must have been caught in the mud countless times. Thank the gods the snow had finally stopped falling, now it was just cold. Much better weather for travelling, though not good enough, Tristan had judged with one eye on the mud-covered wheels. It had taken them almost three days to get back to the fort. 

The fight with the attacking Woads had been brief but intense. It was as if they had come to say their goodbyes, he grinned to himself. That wasn't the case, of course, the Britons had been coming south with more and more forces for weeks now. But Tristan could not be bothered with that. His service had ended and he experienced a relief he had not expected. He was free to do as he pleased now, a notion that turned out to have a profound effect on him.

He allowed himself to slump in his saddle once the fort rose up in front of them, relaxing his sore muscles. He listened to Galahad's rant about the Roman bishop with half an ear, his lips quirking when he heard Gawain's resigned response about the fondness of Romans for ceremony. Even Arthur was guilty of it.

Of course the pup could not resist having a go at the scout and his fondness for battle. He turned his head and gave Galahad the advice to try it himself, the one answer he knew would needle the pup. And indeed, Galahad glared at him, before looking away.

Gawain's laughter mixed with Bors's. The strain between him and Tristan had lessened somewhat lately. They had been through too much together to be able to break with each other. It had also helped that Isabelle wasn't around, though it worried him that she'd been gone so long already. Things were far from being well, and the longer she stayed away, the harder it would get to solve anything.

No matter how strong the bond between the knights was, Gawain was still angry at the both of them. Tristan tuned in again just in time to hear his comment on finding a Sarmatian woman and had to suppress a sigh. He was certain it was Gawain's pride talking; he loved Isabelle.

It was clear he wasn't the only one with that opinion, when Lancelot made a snide remark that made Gawain's eyes narrow, though he hid his threat under an even tone. Satisfied, Lancelot spurred his horse with a mocking smile and rode up to Arthur.

Tristan looked up to the sky when heard the cry of his hawk, stretching out his arm. He stroked his faithful companion, his mind wandering. They would be discharged this same day. Not one of them had any set plans, no one was going to leave the Wall the next day. There was still time left to set things straight.


	50. Return

**A/N:** _Back from the dead! Or… back from the trials of collegehood. That's not even a word. Doesn't matter. Long live the summer holidays! I've finally found the time and energy to plot for this fic. I have to work on the ending, so I'm gathering all loose ends to start putting the final chapters together. _

_I want to thank you all for your kind reviews and I hope you haven't given up on this story. And a big hello to you new readers. Thank you for taking the time to read and review this story. _

_I hope everyone enjoys the next chapter._

_Love, WoE_

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Return

It was already dark when Isabelle woke. Vanora had taken her dirty and torn clothes away, but had laid out a dress for her. Her muscles were stiff from the two-day-walk and the long sleep afterwards, making her dress with difficulty. Three of Vanora's younger children were asleep in the room, but she could hear soft voices coming from the adjoining room.

Stepping outside the bedroom quietly, she smiled at Two and Three, who were watching over their siblings as they were eating their supper. "Where's your Ma?" she asked.

"She had to work tonight," Two said, wiping Seven's mouth, who perked up at the sight of Isabelle.

"Where did you go for so long, Isabelle?" the young girl wanted to know.

"On a visit."

"Are you and Gawain still fighting?" Seven asked.

"We… we're not fighting," Isabelle denied, horrified that Seven had picked up on the tension in the fort.

"Aye, you are," the girl insisted. "He's angry at you. And at Tristan too. Pa is angry at Tristan too. And nobody wants to talk to us. I don't like it."

"I'm so sorry, Seven," Isabelle said. "I had no idea."

"Now that you're back, you and Gawain will stop fighting now, won't you?"

Isabelle looked away from Seven's hopeful face, catching Two's look. She realised Bors's daughter was only a few years younger than herself and had probably understood a whole lot more of what had happened.

Isabelle stroked Seven's auburn hair. "I don't know, Seven," she answered honestly. "But I would like to, very much."

"They came back an hour ago," Two told her. "With their discharge papers."

Isabelle felt a surge of panic. She cleared her throat and said, "I'll go and see your Ma in the Tavern. Goodnight."

Shaking like a leaf, she crossed the few streets to the courtyard and the Tavern, nauseous with fear. She could hear Vanora's scolding voice a mile away, but she was aiming it at a black-haired serving girl instead of Bors. The knights were nowhere to be seen.

"Isabelle!" Vanora called. "I could use a decent hand. This one is good for nothing but breaking mugs."

"You break mugs on a regular basis," Isabelle pointed out.

"Only to make a point to my patrons," Vanora snapped, her hands firmly in her sides.

Isabelle grinned. "Is that what we're calling it these days? Making a point?"

"Watch that mouth of yours, lass," Vanora growled, but her eyes were sparkling as she stepped past the serving girl, towards Isabelle. The girl hurried off to the kitchen, relieved she was off the hook so easily.

"Keep an eye on the bar for me, will you?" Vanora requested. "It hasn't been this busy in months, and I'm short on good help."

"Of course," Isabelle shrugged. "But, Vanora, where are…?"

"Cleaning up, meeting with Arthur and that bishop for their papers," she sighed. "And then it'll all be over."

"I heard there was a fight with Woads. They're all…?"

"Aye," Vanora affirmed, scanning Isabelle's face with sharp eyes. "They're all fine. I expect them here in a short while."

Vanora spotted the trepidation in Isabelle's look instantly. "Don't you think you've run away long enough?"

"I didn't –"

Vanora's quirked eyebrow interrupted her and Isabelle shut her mouth. "Watch the bar for me, love," the redhead simply said, turning around.

Isabelle felt as scolded as the serving girl had been, and Vanora hadn't even said anything. She made her way to the bar, where she filled tankards and pitchers for the serving girls, who were walking to and fro incessantly. It was truly a very busy night, which helped to take her mind off her nerves.

She motioned to a kitchen boy to bring in more kegs to cater for the endless demand of ale. She was helping him put his heavy load in place, when a voice behind her called out to her.

"Eh, pretty lass, not that I have any objections to the scenery, but how about you stand up straight and give a free man some ale?"

Isabelle straightened from her bent-over position and turned around, sneering, "How about you keep your trap shut before I do something nasty to your ale?"

"Isabelle!"

"Oh, it's you," Isabelle replied distastefully.

"Hardly the welcome I was hoping for," Lancelot snorted.

"Likewise," Isabelle retorted, cocking her head to one side, but her frown was dissolving already at the sight of the knight's smirk.

"So, when did you come back?"

"This morning," Isabelle answered. "Listen, Lancelot, I must speak with Arthur at once. It's urgent."

"He's still in the Great Hall, with that snake of a bishop. The great Roman clergyman cannot speak in front of us lowly foreigners, of course." Lancelot's voice was dripping with acid.

Somewhat confused, Isabelle raised an eyebrow. "But he has brought your papers with him, hasn't he?"

"He did," Lancelot answered. "We're all free now." He waved behind him. Isabelle followed his gesture to where the other knights were gathered, across the Tavern, where Galahad was doing an eerily accurate imitation of a polished accent from the Italian peninsula.

The other knights roared with laughter at Galahad's stooped figure and protruding head, as he was rubbing his hands and narrowing his eyes greedily.

Isabelle snorted with laughter. "That bad, eh?"

"The bishop was a man of the army, so I suppose the bent spine is meant metaphorically, but other than that, yes," Lancelot nodded.

Isabelle looked for a moment longer at the knights, before she turned to the one opposite her. "How is… how is Gawain?"

Lancelot looked at her sharply. "Why don't you ask him?"

"Lancelot…"

"That is why you came back, isn't it?"

"I must speak to Arthur."

"And nothing else?"

"Lancelot, you're being –"

"Listen to me, Isabelle," Lancelot snapped. "I don't even pretend to know what on earth you and Tristan were thinking, but I am no fool. I know that wasn't the first time Tristan bedded you and I know of his feelings toward you. I also know that Gawain loves you. What I'm not sure of, is your role in all of this. You have put yourself between two men that are as close as brothers – or should be, at least. Now I have said the same thing to both of them, and I will say it to you. Fix this. Before any of us leave, fix it."

"I'm not sure I can."

"Try," Lancelot growled. "Stop running and try."

"I did not run!" Isabelle exclaimed, galled at being accused of running twice in an hour.

"Oh, but you did, little Isabelle. You ran as fast as you could, leaving the rest of us to deal with the mess."

"That is not fair," Isabelle gasped. She looked at the knights grouped all together and added, "Doesn't seem like much of a mess anyway."

"It's hard to believe you've grown that gullible in the presence of Andrivete," Lancelot growled. "Their relief and joy over having found freedom is greater than their strife. But only for the moment, believe me."

Isabelle swallowed a retort when the sense in Lancelot's remark hit her. "I will get you your ale," she said quietly.

"Thank you."

Subdued, Isabelle filled tankards for the barmaids, glancing at Gawain as much as she could, trying to muster enough courage to go to him. Her heart sank in her shoes when she looked up again and found a dark-haired girl in his lap. She dropped a full mug of ale, a pained whimper escaping her.

Shaking uncontrollably, she squatted down to clean up the mess she'd made, tears blinding her vision. "Fool," she whispered to herself. "What were you hoping for? He doesn't want you anymore."

"Isabelle? Is that you?"

Isabelle stilled her sobs and looked up from the floor, seeing Dagonet lean over the bar with a concerned face.

"Dag," she nodded, clearing her throat. "How are you?"

"Better than you, I believe," he answered slowly. "What happened?"

Isabelle gave him a watery smile. "I ruined everything, didn't I?" Promptly she burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.

Dagonet hurried around the counter and picked her up from the floor, walking her quickly into the kitchen. "What has brought this about?" he wanted to know, stroking Isabelle's hair as she cried into his hauberk. "When did you come back?"

"This morning," Isabelle answered. "I thought – I thought maybe there was a chance… But I'm too late. Everything's ruined."

"Ruined?" Dagonet repeated. "What are you – Oh, you mean Alis?"

"If that's the cow's name, aye," Isabelle spat poisonously, following Dagonet's gaze through the door opening to the girl with moon-shaped face.

Dagonet smiled at the jealous tone in Isabelle's voice. Maybe all wasn't lost yet. "Alis is Galahad's woman, Isabelle," he said gently.

"Oh, really? Then why is she still in Gawain's lap?" she hissed.

"Because he's teasing his best friend," Dagonet smiled.

Isabelle still glared daggers through unshed tears at the couple, until Dagonet lifted her chin. "If you want him, go to him. He's teasing, he's flirting, but he hasn't taken anyone to his room. He earned his freedom today, which he will share with no woman but you. Just go to him."

"He will push me away," she whispered. "I can't bear it."

"So you will give him up?"

"No!"

"I didn't think so." Dagonet cupped her cheek for a moment, before he walked out of the kitchen, asking for a drink from the girl who was attending to the abandoned bar.

Isabelle wiped her tears, taking deep breaths. She went back to the bar to serve drinks, keeping her head down to hide her red eyes. The kitchen help who was drying mugs next to her, kept shooting furtive glances at her, as if he could sense her inner turmoil.

Through her eyelashes Isabelle looked at the table where Gawain was seated, that girl Alis still in his lap. He was telling her jokes, amusing her, Isabelle could tell by the type of grin he wore, even from across the Tavern. Hurt and jealousy ate at her as she watched him.

"Still don't believe me, I see," a voice distracted her.

"Dag," she whispered. "Thank you, but I'm not blind. I can see – " Her breath hitched, a wave of pure relief choking her as she saw the girl Alis get up from Gawain's lap and walk over to Galahad, who pulled her in for a shameless, deep kiss.

Dagonet turned around to see what she was looking at. He said nothing while Gawain and Galahad started bantering in easy companionship, the girl joining in. The knights riled each other into a game of knife throwing, while Alis made a show of massaging Galahad's shoulders and then Gawain's as they took turns in attacking the remnants of an old stool, which had been attached to a pole years ago.

Dagonet and Isabelle watched as Tristan's knife hit the butt of Galahad's, at which the youngest knight whirled around disbelievingly. Tristan replied to something Gawain said, pointing at the stool with an apple in his hand, a hint of smugness in his face.

Dag chuckled and turned back to the bar, drinking deeply from his mug.

"Dagonet!" Bors shouted. "Where've you been? We've got plans to make."

Bors looked surprised at seeing Isabelle, but was distracted by his lover. He coaxed her quickly into singing, dragging her to the middle of the Tavern, accompanied by encouraging cheers and calls for singing.

"Don't drop the baby!"

Isabelle couldn't help but smile at Gawain's ridiculous remark, but her mood faded to melancholy as Vanora began to sing of home. Judging from the faces of the knights and the other costumers, she wasn't the only one. She studied Gawain, her heart clenching painfully.

She couldn't keep her attention to him for long. The Tavern, which had slowed down for the duration of the song, burst into lively action again as soon as the song ended.

Isabelle heard Jols call out to Arthur and smiled fleetingly when she saw the knights saunter to their commander, relaxed and content. She was distracted by several requests for ale and mulled wine, bread and stew.

"Kitchen closes in half an hour, we're almost out of stew," she warned the serving girls.

"Ravenous beasts, the lot of them," a blonde girl laughed over her shoulder, balancing three bowls of stew on her arms and deftly weaving her way through the crowd.

Isabelle picked up the three remaining bowls and followed the girl to the table with waiting costumers, who welcomed the two women with starved groans. Isabelle and the blonde girl exchanged a knowing smile, and the girl opened her mouth to say something, until…

"I AM A FREE MAN!"

Isabelle whipped around, as did everyone else.

Still enraged, Bors continued, "I will choose my own fate!"

Isabelle watched from a distance, dumbfounded, as Tristan spoke softly, his mouth curled into a snarl.

Galahad exploded. "If you're so eager to die, you can die right now! I've got something to live for!"

Lancelot pulled the youngest knight back.

"What the hell is going on?" Isabelle wondered, as Dagonet took charge of the discussion, walking away with Bors, who shouted, "I'm just saying what you're all thinking!"

"I don't know," the blonde girl answered.

They watched the knights leave the Tavern one by one. Tristan walked past the women, catching Isabelle's eye, who looked at him in confusion. "What's going on?" she mouthed, but Tristan's step did not falter, nor did he answer.

He just looked at her, as if he were imprinting her image into his mind, taking in her entire appearance with a fierce and hungry look. The intensity of his eyes was starting to scare her as she was overcome with a sense of foreboding and desperation, but she had no idea where it came from.

She held her breath, caught like a deer, until the scout had passed her and the feeling subsided. "God, what is going on?" she whispered, panting.

The sound of breaking pottery drew her attention back to Arthur and the remaining knights. Galahad laughed mirthlessly, walking away from his commander and his closest friend.

Gawain stood very still, his head turned slightly towards his retreating friend, until he too walked away from the courtyard.

Isabelle and the blonde serving girl exchanged glances. "What happened?"

* * *

Gawain sat on the edge of his bed, leaning his elbows on his knees, his hands curled into tight fists. He was shaking.

In all his years with Arthur he'd had nothing but respect and eventually love for his commander, but now he hated him with every fibre of his being.

For one hour, one blissful hour, he'd thought he was a free man. He'd survived hell for fifteen years, had suppressed every thought of the future meticulously, but in that one hour, that one intoxicating hour, he'd allowed a flow of hope to invade him. No, it was more than hope. It was certainty. Certainty that his future was finally here, and could no longer be snatched away from him.

He'd seen Isabelle behind the bar. Lancelot had leaned over his shoulder and whispered, "She's here. Now fix it."

She'd looked very tired and wan, hiding most of her face behind her thick brown locks. He'd tuned out Alis's chatter and just looked at her, anger and relief and desire battling within him.

He still loved her, but he wasn't sure he could forgive her.

Gods, it didn't matter now. He was already dead. Gawain clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles cracked. He'd been a slave of Rome for most of his life, but never had he felt this caged, this powerless. He'd had a taste of freedom, until it was taken away.

He had to swallow a cry of rage. In the next room Galahad was not so silent. Gawain could hear him swear viciously, and the piece of pottery that shattered against the wall was the fourth Gawain had counted so far.

North of the Wall.

North of Hadrian's Wall.

The last time they'd gone north was seven years ago. They'd lost five knights and not one of the others had remained unharmed. Gawain still dreamt of the Woad-infested woods, the blood, and his comrades' dead eyes.

Gawain was ready to kill the Roman bishop. Rage was consuming him, as well as fear. Fear for his own life, fear for his brothers-in-arms.

"Stop it," he hissed to himself. "This is what will get you killed. Stop it right now." But Gawain was drowning in his own emotions. He rested his head in his hands.

He did not hear the knock on his door, nor did he hear the soft squeak when the door opened.

"What's going on, Gawain?"

Gawain jumped to his feet, a knife instantly in his hands.

Isabelle raised her hands. "It's me," she said quickly. "It's just me."

"Holy gods, woman," he shouted. "Do you have a death wish?"

"Sorry," she answered meekly.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he snapped.

Hurt flashed in Isabelle's eyes, but she cleared her throat and said, "Tell me what happened in the courtyard, Gawain."

The need to fight her immediately left him. He sagged on his bed. "We're not free," he muttered.

"What?" she whispered. "What do you mean?"

"The bishop," Gawain answered. "He did not come to give us our papers… He has another mission for us."

"But you've served your fifteen years. You've earned it," Isabelle replied shrilly. "Did he even _bring_ your papers?"

"Aye," Gawain growled. "He brought them. Showed them to us even. Then snapped the box shut. I'll kill him," he hissed suddenly. "I'll rip out his guts."

Isabelle shuddered at the barely contained fury emanating from the knight. She kept her distance, not sure of his mood. "What kind of mission?" she asked. "You've already come through so much, this one won't be any –"

Gawain looked up to her, the rage replaced by something else. Suddenly Isabelle felt the same sense of desperation and foreboding she'd felt when Tristan had looked at her. "What?" she breathed. "Tell me."

"We're ordered to bring a family back to the Wall," Gawain told her, his voice raspy. "We're to go north of the Wall."

"North…" Isabelle whispered. "That's insane. Nobody's tried to get past the Woads in –"

"…seven years," Gawain finished.

Isabelle took a tentative step closer to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Gawain covered it with his own.

"Arthur won't allow this," she muttered. "He knows… he knows it can't be done." The madness of this order made it too surreal for Isabelle to let it sink in.

"Arthur," Gawain croaked. "Arthur is bound to Rome in duty and blood. We are bound to Arthur in blood and love. We leave at first light."

"No," Isabelle whispered. "You can't. Please, Gawain."

Gawain squeezed her hand hard. "Gods, Isabelle, I don't want to go," he growled. "Some of us will die out there, I know it. Last time…"

Suddenly his arm shot out and grabbed her waist, pulling her in. He rested his forehead against her stomach, muttering the names to her body.

"Accolon, Palomedes, Lionel, Agloval, Ban…"

Isabelle remembered the nights she'd woken Gawain from fitful nightmares, drenched in sweat, muttering these names among the names of his and Galahad's dead brothers. Gawain, always so strong, nearly come undone by having to go back to that place. She blinked away her tears. "Gawain…"

"We will follow Arthur," he said softly, but firmly.

Isabelle wove her hand into his hair, knowing his mind was set. "I'll be here when you come back."


	51. Goodbyes

**A/N: **Thanks again to my reviewers. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Goodbyes**

Gawain rested his head against her stomach in silence, Isabelle's hand still tightly clenched in his hair. Slowly he pushed himself away from her, feeling her fingers release him reluctantly.

She looked him in the eye and frowned, unsure of his expression.

"Go and say goodbye to Tristan," he told her.

"Wh – what?" she stammered. She scrutinised his face, but there was no sign of resentment or rancour there, just calmness.

"Not all of us are coming back, Isabelle," Gawain said quietly. "Go and say goodbye to him."

"Gawain, I don't want – "

"I know you love him," Gawain persisted.

"I love _you_!" she exclaimed, tears pricking her eyes. "I chose _you_, whether you'll have me or not, I want _you_!"

"But you love him also," Gawain replied softly.

"I – I…"

"He told me what exists between you two," Gawain continued stubbornly. "A bond that – "

"Gawain, please," she interrupted. "It's not – "

"Don't deny it," Gawain demanded sharply. "I know it, Isabelle. I've seen it myself."

She snapped her mouth shut, too stunned for words.

"I might not have wanted to believe it, but it was hard to deny what I saw," Gawain told her. "So don't."

Gawain looked at her pale face, her trembling mouth and shocked green eyes and looked away.

"I won't deny it," she then said slowly. "It is there, has been since I recovered from the lashes, and I can't undo it. I've tried… It is not as it is between you and I, Gawain. Not at all. And that is what I want. I want you."

Isabelle sank to her knees to look him in the eye. "You must believe me," she begged.

"Isabelle," Gawain began throatily. "It's not about that. Everything's changed now."

She scrambled to her feet when she saw the resignation in his face, hissing furiously, "So that's it, eh? You intend to die out there!"

"I do not intend to die!" Gawain roared, jumping to his feet.

"But you think it!" she spat back. "You think you and Tristan and everyone else are going to die. That's where this noble gesture is coming from. Well, I tell you now," she snarled, grabbing the front of his tunic, "that if you don't come back to me I will drag your bloody carcass from that place myself and kill you in ways too painful for you to comprehend!"

Gawain's nostrils flared and he grabbed her wrists. "You're trying my patience, Isabelle," he growled at her.

"I don't give a damn," she snapped back. "I'm not saying goodbye to anyone but you and I'm telling you to come back!"

Gawain ripped her hands from his tunic and pushed them behind her back, holding them in place, making her body arch into him. Isabelle glared at him, eyes blazing, teeth bared.

He bent down and captured her mouth in a searing kiss. Isabelle's stomach exploded. She tried to wriggle her arms out of his grip, but Gawain did not relent, only kissing her harder.

Lips clashing, teeth biting, they fought for dominance, their breathing harsh, until the atmosphere between them changed strongly and abruptly, and they clung to each other desperately, Isabelle's face hidden in his neck, their bodies trembling.

Isabelle told him softly, "You are my home, Gawain, the only one I know, the only one I need. You are my light, you ignite me. I love you."

Gawain gently stroked her hair, closing his eyes.

"I love you," she whispered. "Come home to me."

He distanced himself from her. "It doesn't change the way things are, Isabelle," he said. "Too much has happened. Whatever your feelings for me, the ones you have for him were there longer. I know you love _him_."

She gasped, injured by his words. "You do not believe me."

He let go of her. "No, I don't."

* * *

Tristan leaned on the battlements, scanning the dark tree line of the northern landscape. It would be up to him to guide his comrades safely through those woods. An impossible task.

That was where Merlin ruled, that was where he decided life or death for every creature that ventured between those trees. Merlin had chosen death for five knights and nobody had been able to change anything about it.

"Ban, Accolon, Agloval, Lionel, Palomedes," Tristan muttered the names of his fallen brothers-in-arms to the cold night air. "Will you be waiting for us there, brothers?"

He shook his morbid mood from him when a shadow in the courtyard caught his attention. The figure of a woman glided from the main building to the fountain, where she bent over and filled her hands with water to drink.

Tristan would have recognised her a mile away. He watched her as she splashed water on her face, the drops turning silver as they caught a bit of the moonlight.

The ethereal atmosphere was disrupted by a loud curse coming from the feminine silhouette. She kicked against the stone base of the fountain and then brusquely sat down on the edge, running her hands through her hair.

Tristan fought his immediate impulse to go to her. It was better if they stayed away from each other. She wanted it – she had made it clear to him that she wanted it – and he should respect it.

But she was right there, dipping her fingers in the water, oblivious to his presence.

If he was to go north the next morning and join his perished comrades, he wanted to say goodbye to her. "Ridiculous," he snarled to himself. When had he turned into a simpering woman?

Death had been on his doorstep a myriad of times. Never had he had any inclination whatsoever for goodbyes. Death was there, it was inevitable. Tristan had always accepted death's presence hovering over him without as much as a blink. His life was mingled with death and tonight was no different.

Unfortunately he was fully aware that he was fooling himself.

A mere moment later she looked up, taken by surprise, not having heard him approach. She scoffed. "Come to tell me you're going to die as well?"

"Most likely," Tristan shrugged.

"Well, that's nice," she growled. "Doesn't seem to bother you in the least."

Tristan did not understand her anger. "All our missions are dangerous, you know this."

"Oh, I know!" she snapped. "I've seen you bloodied and cut more times than I wish to remember. I can't believe you! None of you! You're letting yourselves be dragged to the north like lambs, expecting and accepting your death. Is this what you've fought for all those years? What is wrong with you people?"

Tristan looked at her in silence, taking in her distressed face. "Isabelle," he said quietly. "What else can we do? The estate of the family is easily accessible by sea. That is why they were able to live there. But the Saxons have cut off that route. That family is already lost. The bishop's mission is nothing more than a gesture towards the pope, to show them he attempted to save the family. Our lives mean nothing in this. If we refuse this mission, Rome will proclaim us deserters and hunt us down. If we accept this mission and follow Arthur, we will follow him into death. Why distress yourself over an inevitability?"

"Why distress myself?" Isabelle shrieked. "Maybe because I don't want to lose you!"

"This is the way it is," Tristan shrugged.

"Oh my God," Isabelle huffed. "You and Gawain, I don't know why I even bother with you. You're insane, both of you!"

"Why?"

"Gawain sends me to you, because he thinks you are going to die!" Isabelle shouted. "He thinks he is going to die, that _everybody's_ going to die and I don't want you to die!"

Isabelle stood opposite him, shoulders and fists shaking, clenching her jaw. Before he had time to check himself, Tristan had grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. She pressed her nose hard into his chest, hissing, "I am so very angry with you."

"Just me, or all of us?" Tristan asked her dryly.

"Shove it, you bastard," she growled. "I hate you."

"Aye, I can tell," Tristan remarked, looking down at the top of her head as she was still leaning against him.

Furious, she pushed him away, glaring daggers.

"Isabelle…" he tried to appease her.

"I do not understand you! How can you accept this mission?"

"You do not need to understand," Tristan replied. "Arthur is not to you what he is to us. You cannot understand."

"No, it is your willingness to die that I cannot understand," she bit back.

"I do not want to die," Tristan told her. "But I do not avoid it either. Everybody dies, you must accept this."

"But you are free," she protested. "It is unjust."

"There's nothing I can do about it. Neither can Gawain, or Arthur."

Isabelle turned her back on him, muttering foul things under her breath. Tristan heard the bishop's name several times. Her back was straight as an arrow, her hands in her sides.

"Oh God, Tristan, I don't want to say goodbye to you," she suddenly burst out, bending her head.

He was surprised. "I thought we already had," he said softly.

She ran her hands through her hair. "We had," she whispered and took a deep breath. "Yet here we are again."

"Why can't I stay away from you?" he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Isabelle turned back, taking in his figure, an eerie calm descending on her. "You will go on this mission, won't you? Nothing I say is going to stop you."

"Aye," he answered, and looked at her, spotting the odd tranquillity in her eyes. The hairs on his arms began to stand on end.

"I cannot have anything stand between us," she continued. "I won't allow it."

"Isabelle…"

"I walked out on you the last time," she said. "I shouldn't have done that. Tristan, I love Gawain. And I love you. I know I am not what you need, and you are not what I need." She smiled teary-eyed, but steadily.

"But I love you. I simply do. I know you don't want me close to you, but you are to me. You hold a piece of my heart, as Gawain holds the other part. That won't change."

She stepped closer to him, putting her hand on his cheek. "In the stables, I was furious with you, but that is of no consequence now. There are more important matters. I want you to come back – I need you to come back."

"Isabelle, this is not right," he told her, taking her hand off his cheek. "You belong with Gawain."

"Aye, I do," she answered, her face fierce and defiant. "But it does not change the way I feel about you. You can try to push me away again, I won't stand for it. Will you deny me?"

Tristan gave up. He'd spent nearly a year of his life fighting her, fighting himself. This was probably the last time he would see her. "No," he answered her. "I won't do that." He held on to her hand, their fingers intertwining.

"I won't either." She squeezed his hand tightly.

"We are what we are," Tristan said. It was not an apology.

"I know," Isabelle smiled.

Their kiss was chaste, a kiss of acceptance and of goodbye. Tristan rested his forehead against hers, breathing in her scent. Isabelle sighed.

Tristan kissed her brow. "I will bring him back to you."


	52. Mission

**A/N: I am a horrible, horrible person who deserves to tarred and feathered for being absent for so long. I have absolutely no excuse but having been too busy with college, work, sports and such to sit down and work on this story. Please feel free to flame me for my disgusting lack of updates. I won't mind... **

**I hope you will enjoy reading this chapter anyway. It is a chapter that finally brings a few answers. I'd really appreciate it if you let me know what you think of it.**

**Love, Witch of Eastwick**

* * *

Mission

After tossing and turning in her uncomfortable rented bed – she hadn't wanted to intrude on Bors and Vanora's last night together – Isabelle decided to give up on sleep and slipped out from under the rough blankets, putting on her borrowed dress.

Last night she and Tristan had spent a little more time together in calm silence, taking comfort in each other's presence, before he'd kissed her one more time and walked away. He'd taken every bit of calmness he'd given her with him, leaving her in a nervous, nauseating frenzy.

She'd secured a room for herself near the Tavern, not wanting to go to Vanora's, and still being too angry with Gawain to go to him. Now, in the early hours just before sunrise, she cursed herself for her stubbornness and hurriedly tied the many toggles of her dress. She pulled a piece of bread she'd snatched from the Tavern last night out of her pocket, and began tearing it into parts small enough to eat, silently leaving the room and descending the stairs.

She headed towards the main building, to Gawain's room, but when she knocked, there was no answer. Pushing the door ajar, she peeked around it. "Gawain?"

The room was empty. A quick scan learned that his armour and weapons were gone. Isabelle swore. "Please don't be gone already," she whispered, already having turned around to run to the stables. She flew outside. The sun was coming up, casting a pale gold winter light over the fort. She had heard no shouted orders and the gates were still barred – it must mean that the knights were still in the fort.

Expertly, she weaved her way through the throng of people going about their morning business, but skidded to an abrupt halt when she had neared the small side entrance to the stables. From the other side a small group of people walked to the stables as well. The bishop.

In his wake followed a number of guards. But it was not the richly clad bishop or his heavily armed guards that made her blink in confusion, years of ingrained suspicion kicking in and telling her to slink between other onlookers, making herself inconspicuous. It was the much more simply clad man behind the bishop that had caught her attention, setting off every possible alarm bell in her head. But for the life of her, she could not understand why.

There was nothing about him that would warrant imminent danger. His clothing was simple, but made of fine cloth. He had a scribe's hands, long-fingered and soft. He'd clearly not wielded a weapon or tool in his life. His hair was black, and neatly trimmed. He was a cleric and nothing more.

Pure instinct, however, prevented her from moving. She watched them enter the stables, two guards remaining at the entrance. She could not go in.

"Damn it," she hissed. She turned around, heading towards the larger doors of the stables, but found that they were guarded as well. She could do nothing but wait until the knights exited, hoping that they would not leave immediately.

Fate must have been punishing her for her stubbornness last night, because shortly after the knights filed out of the stables, already mounted and following Arthur at a firm trot.

"Come back, Gawain," she said softly, willing him to look her way. He did, and Isabelle tried to put everything she wanted to say in her eyes. Gawain's face was grim, tight lines around his mouth, but they softened when he saw her.

"Come back," she repeated.

He turned his head to the front, the set lines of his face back in place, and followed his commander out of the gates.

* * *

It was raining. Of _course_ it was raining. It always rained. Gawain focused on the pure, unadulterated annoyance the rain caused him, slowly but surely soaking his clothes, dribbling into the neckline of his cloak, and lashing his face viciously.

His irritation with the weather helped him keep feelings of dread and anxiousness deep inside, where they could not influence him. These woods made his skin crawl. So many places for the Woads to hide, as they had done seven years ago. Mist swirled around the hooves of their mounts, and any light that managed to peek through the heavy rain clouds, was stopped almost entirely by the thick, dark green foliage.

The tension was wearing out all of them, as they rode hard and fast. Tristan's uncanny sense of direction allowed them to advance into the north rapidly. They rode without rest, stopping only to briefly consult their map, Arthur and Tristan hunched over the parchment, speaking in curt, low tones, while the others stood guard around them, skin tingling, hairs on end. The bishop's uninvited secretary maintained a deathly silence, even more tense than the knights. To their surprise he was able to keep up with their merciless pace, not complaining once.

It was on the third day that they were attacked. The path was very small, forcing them to make their way slowly and carefully, one at a time, to avoid their mounts stumbling. An injury to one of the horses would mean certain death in this place. For its rider.

Tristan was the first to notice the unnatural rustling of the leaves in the underbrush to their left. "Woads," he said quietly. "They're tracking us."

Gawain's head shot up. The rustling of the leaves was too loud, even with the frosty wind playing between the trees. It was coming from both the left and the right side of the path now. This was it then, he thought. Merlin was coming for them.

The tension in the group mounted even further. The horses, so attuned to their masters, became skittish. The sense of a noose closing tighter and tighter around their necks had the knights looking around them edgily, searching for blue between the green leaves. When the attack finally came, it was almost a relief. They could finally look at their enemy. But it was obvious that enemy had been expecting them. Despite Arthur's frantic attempts to lead them out of the trap, their escape routes were cut off one by one.

Galahad was nearly impaled on hidden stakes in the ground. Gawain, right behind him, stared wide-eyed at the contraption. The resignation with which he had faced this mission, and his probable death during it, vaporised. He did not want to die in these infested woods, mere days away from freedom.

"This way!" Arthur shouted.

Gawain turned away from the stakes and followed his commander, ducking arrows along the way. It might not matter what he wanted, though, they were running out of options fast.

The natives had blocked every path. The one they were riding along currently filled suddenly with Woads. Arthur was forced to turn back in the face of their spears, heading straight back to the closed off paths. Woads with bows were waiting for them. Sensing there was no other option but stay and fight, he drew his sword. The knights followed him. Galahad and Tristan held their bows at the ready.

The Woads, though ready for a massacre, did nothing. The arrows, which would have ended the knights' lives in a moment, were not loosed.

Gawain's nerves were running thin. He wanted it to be over with. "What are you waiting for?" he called out.

Then he noticed it. The melancholy sound of a horn, most definitely not Roman. The Woads did not move, but did not shoot either. The horn called again.

Arthur looked the Woad leader defiantly in the eye. It was clear to everyone what that horn was signalling. The Woad leader was clearly reluctant to let his captives alive, however. So close, so close they were to achieving their goal. Gawain swallowed, not even daring to hope they would get a reprieve.

But the horn called again. Whoever was behind it had enough authority to make the Woad leader adhere to his wishes. With a final glare, the leader lowered his bow and retreated. Within seconds the whole group had simply vanished into the woods.

Gawain's hair stood on end. It stayed that way the rest of the day, even after Arthur's composed, but still slightly incredulous remark, "Merlin doesn't want us dead." The one thing he had never expected, had just happened.

The world had shifted.

* * *

Isabelle had been racking her brain for days. But she could not understand why the scrawny cleric had given her cause for such alarm, such suspicion.

All of her time was occupied with work. Berwyn claimed her during the day, and Vanora, concerned that Isabelle might lapse back into worrying, had her working nights in the Tavern.

Though her hands were busy, her mind had ample opportunity for wandering. Vanora had already warned her twice that the frown between her brows might become permanent.

Isabelle had chuckled faintly, but the frown had not eased.

It was during her second turn of washing the dishes on the third night the knights were away, that it suddenly clicked in her mind. "Oh God," she breathed, a mug slipping from her grasp.

The pieces had finally come together.

* * *

It had already been a week since Arthur and his men had left, and the waiting was wearing Isabelle down. The combination of having to speak to Arthur immediately, but not knowing if he would even come back, was grating on her last nerves. Not to mention the constant sweeping sensation in her stomach every time she thought of Gawain and Tristan riding through Woad territory, towards a Saxon invasion.

At noon on the seventh day Isabelle heard a call from the guards that a caravan was approaching from the north side of the Wall. Ignoring his protests, she ran from Berwyn's to the main square, where she could watch from the opened gateway.

Two Roman cavalrymen whooshed past her, galloping on the road that led to the massive gate to the north. "It's Artorius," she heard a guard say to his companion.

Gathering up her skirts, Isabelle began to run towards the caravan, determined to halt Arthur before he reached the fort. He had to be warned of the danger. The knights rode up front with Arthur, followed by wagons and stumbling peasants. Isabelle spared no time to take notice of this strange assembly of people.

"Arthur!" she called out. "Arthur!"

"Isabelle?" he frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"Arthur," she panted. "We must speak. I know who's responsible for all the murders."

Arthur's face twisted in revulsion. "So do I."

"What?" she asked, astounded, but Arthur did not halt his horse, and cantered past her.

Suddenly she found an outstretched arm in front of her. Looking up, she saw it was Gawain. Grabbing his hand, she was hauled atop his horse. Gawain seated her in front of him and used his arm to keep her tightly against his chest. "You made it back," she breathed. "Are you all right?"

Gawain didn't answer; he just pressed his lips to her ear. His arm around her was so tight she could hardly breathe, let alone move. Moving her head, she could see Galahad and Tristan, easing the tight coil in her insides a bit, but her questions and demand to loosen his hold, were bluntly ignored by Gawain, which kicked up her anxiousness again.

Finally, when they were inside the fort, Gawain let go of her waist and helped her slide down from the horse, after which he followed his commander into the inner court, towards the waiting bishop. Isabelle found Vanora watching the caravan with a deep frown. "Where is Dag?" she asked the younger woman. "Did you see him?"

Isabelle shook her head, but at the same time, remembering Gawain's odd behaviour, it was as if the ground disappeared beneath her feet. She closed her eyes, clutching Vanora's arm.

"Oh, no," Vanora whispered panicky. "Oh, no no no."

Isabelle opened her eyes, locking on to the caravan, where Jols was just passing them on foot, leading a horse with a body draped over it, covered with a cloak. A single hand swung lifelessly beneath it, skin already bluish grey.

Vanora swayed on her feet, groaning like a wounded animal. Isabelle grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her up and pulling her into an embrace, partly to comfort Vanora, but also to keep herself on her feet.

"Come on," Isabelle choked, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. "Let's get you home."

Vanora was still making that terrible, soft, keening sound when Isabelle led her into her home. Not knowing what to do, she sat the distraught woman on her bed and just remained by her side, so scared by Vanora's behaviour that her limbs were shaking, trying to hold her own grief in.

She could not think, could not allow herself to think about what had happened, because she knew she would descend into a state resembling Vanora. She didn't know how long she'd been there, when she heard heavy footfalls nearing the little house.

"Vanora?" a broken voice croaked.

"In here," Isabelle called unsteadily.

"Bors?" Vanora whispered. The moment her lover appeared in the doorway, she stumbled to her feet and hurried towards him. Bors wrapped her in his arms, hiding his contorted face in her hair.

Isabelle silently left them to their grief and walked outside into the cold. It was as if her head was filled with fog, thick and impenetrable, to help her keep herself from thinking about what had happened.

She was trembling all over by the time she reached the stables. Jols was there, taking care of the knights' horses, but she ignored him, walking past him to the stable where she'd sought refuge before.

Kay's stallion nudged her belly with a velvet nose, earning himself a kiss pressed between his eyes. "Kolya," she whispered.

She seated herself in the straw, leaning against the wall, staring at Kolya's right flank, going over it in her mind again and again. How could this have happened? It wasn't supposed to be this way. Dagonet had already been free – he should have already been free. He had served his fifteen years, he'd earned his freedom. The injustice burned like bile in her throat.

"Hello, there, you old brute," a soft, rumbling voice spoke above her.

Isabelle lifted her head. Kolya allowed Gawain to stroke his head. "Been keeping her safe again?" Gawain murmured. "Aye, no one can get past you, can't they?"

He looked down at her. "Are you coming? You've been here for hours."

"Hours?" she repeated, surprised. Her voice broke and she cleared her throat.

"Aye."

Isabelle stood slowly, her joints protesting after having sat in the same position for so long. Kolya snorted and pushed against her shoulder. She smiled faintly and leaned against the warhorse for a moment, rubbing her nose against his shiny coat.

Gawain opened the door for her and she walked out, seeing Jols lead Dagonet's horse out of the stable. Her breath caught in her throat. "Is it time already?"

"Aye," Gawain answered. "Here, I brought your cloak." He draped the worn, burgundy garment around her. His hands lingered on her shoulders.

Isabelle stood frozen for a moment, pain constricting her chest, before she turned around and wrapped her arms around his waist. "He saved my life a dozen times," she whispered. "He was always just… _there_."

Isabelle felt wobbly, but it had nothing to do with her legs. First Kay, now Dagonet. They'd been rocks to her, steady ground. Granted, Kay had been a lot more outspoken, but they both had had that same unmovable, reassuring quality.

To have that taken away was nothing short of frightening.

Gawain had no words of comfort for her, and perhaps this was the most frightening of all. Isabelle disentangled herself from him, taking in his taut, white face. "Come on," she said, grasping his hand and leading him out of the stables. He seemed to regain himself as they walked out of the fort to the graveyard. Jols was already waiting with Dagonet's mount, as were Arthur and the knights, Vanora and the children, and two women and boys Isabelle had never seen before. Tristan was missing.

Isabelle stopped at the small mound that was Kay's grave and kneeled there, while Gawain took his place amongst his brothers. They waited. More villagers gathered around, as well as people with unfamiliar faces. These must be people the knights had brought back from the north, Isabelle thought.

Tristan finally arrived, walking up to his brothers with a handsomely made wooden chest. Bors began closing the grave with fresh earth, soon joined by others. After they had finished the mound, Vanora placed a small bowl on top of it, lighting the oil inside it.

Tristan opened the box he was still holding for Bors, who placed a scroll of parchment in it with a pained face as well as a few other gifts. One by one the knights placed their parting gifts in the box, Gawain last, after which Tristan closed it and gave it to him.

Gawain placed it on top of the mound, murmuring his goodbye.

The gathered people slowly began to disperse. Gawain walked to Isabelle, helping her to her feet and leading her away. She looked back to see Bors slump next to Dagonet's grave, while Arthur strode over to another grave, an unfamiliar woman trailing behind him.

"Who's that?" Isabelle asked.

"Guinevere, a Woad held captive by the Honorius family," Gawain answered. He shook his head. "Strange woman. Latched herself onto Arthur immediately. Keeps bothering him. As if she needs something from him."

Isabelle turned around again to look at the Woad woman, who was talking fierily to Arthur.

"But she helped us fend of the Saxons," Gawain continued. He hissed as if in pain. "Dagonet saved us all."

Isabelle intertwined her fingers with his. "Will you tell me what happened?"

As they slowly made their way back to the fort, Gawain began to recall their mission.

* * *

They hadn't been back long, when Jols came to find Isabelle. "Arthur wants to talk to you in the Hall," he told her.

Isabelle nodded and let go of Gawain's hand. "What for?" he inquired.

"It's about Maurus and the murders," she said. "I'll tell you later."

She left Gawain on the bench in the empty Tavern and walked to the main building. Her breath escaped her with a long sigh. She was relieved that Gawain had come to her, to offer comfort as well as seek it. But the implications of it were too much for Isabelle to ponder on, her heart too full with the loss of Dagonet.

"Arthur," she breathed. "You look…"

"Horrible," Arthur finished. "Yes, I know."

A bandage was wrapped around his neck and his face was pale. The lines in his face seemed to be deeper than usual and there were bags under his eyes. What had struck Isabelle the most, however, was the sense of defeat that hung around him.

"What's going on, Arthur?" she asked carefully.

"Have a seat." He waved tiredly at his round table. "You said you knew who was responsible for the murders. I am sure I know too, but there are a few pieces missing. Maybe we can put everything together. How did you find out?"

Isabelle seated herself automatically in Kay's old seat, tracing the carvings on the table for a moment. Ignoring the stab of pain she was accustomed to, she said," It was a number of things actually. I've been putting a few things together myself.

"We thought at first that it was only you someone was after, didn't we?" Isabelle began.

Arthur nodded. "Yes, until Junius of Pons Aelius told me that his commander Gaius Avitus had been murdered by an assassin too."

"Aye, by Kallias," Isabelle agreed. "Who then came for me, because I'd betrayed Maurus."

"Junius and the commanders of the other forts told us that more soldiers had been found dead, which was when I began to suspect that these murders may have been connected, all trails leading to Maurus."

"Pity our little trip to the south didn't tell us much," Isabelle scoffed.

"Maybe not, but our visit to the Dux in Eboracum did," Arthur replied slowly. "When we saw him, he had already been informed of the murders. We told him what we knew about Maurus, and instead of being thanked for the information, we were reprimanded for leaving our post."

"Aye, we've spoken about that," Isabelle nodded. "We thought he might have known more about what was going on, but that he was overruled."

Arthur grimaced. "I should have known back then, but I never would have believed…"

"What, Arthur?"

"The Dux is the highest power in Britannia," Arthur sighed. "An overruling order, an order _not to intervene_, could only have come from Rome."

"But why, though?" Isabelle wondered. "I still don't understand why."

"I believe I can answer that. But tell me how you found out."

"Well, we didn't find out anything else for a long time," Isabelle continued. "But when I left with Andrivete, I heard her and Servilia Claudius speak about Cornelius Claudius, Servilia's late husband."

Arthur sat up straight. This he had not heard before.

"I recognized the name. Maurus had ordered Amaranthe to poison him."

"What? But how does that relate to –"

"I know, I know," Isabelle hurried to say. "I couldn't possibly have imagined that murder to be related to _us_ at the time I overheard Maurus and Amaranthe. But that's not all Servilia and Andrivete spoke about.

"Andrivete used to be Julius Septimus's mistress, right?"

"Yes, I was trained by Septimus after my father died," Arthur answered. "When he retired, I took over his post here and he went to Rome."

"With Andrivete," Isabelle added. "She had her own residence there, and apparently she played host to Septimus and some of his friends, one of them being Cornelius Claudius."

"Septimus and Claudius were friends?" Arthur frowned.

"Well, I'm not sure how close they were, but at the very least they shared a common goal. I don't know what it was – Andrivete did not elaborate on it, but it was dangerous enough for Servilia to become extremely upset when she found out that Andrivete knew about it.

"Most of the members of the group that gathered at Andrivete's residence, were picked off one by one, all dying in suspicious circumstances," Isabelle continued. "It spooked Cornelius Claudius and he fled Rome, coming to Britannia, where he had inherited an estate. He was murdered during a visit to Eboracum. That was a few months before I was sent to you."

Comprehension was dawning on Arthur's face. "I see. What about Julius Septimus?"

"Arthur," Isabelle said quietly. "Andrivete said he was poisoned in Rome. It's why she fled to Thracia and later to Londinium."

Shock and pain marred Arthur's countenance. He gritted his teeth involuntarily. "I knew of some of this. Andrivete told me that she had become involved with a group that wanted to reform the Church in Rome."

Isabelle's jaw dropped. "_That's_ what that group was about? Reforming the Church?" She whistled. "That would be dangerous enough, I suppose."

"I would never have thought that it was," Arthur said through clenched teeth. "But I've had to reconsider a lot of things lately."

Isabelle frowned, not understanding.

"Andrivete spoke to me a few months back," Arthur said. "She told me that she had enemies in Rome and that she had left for Britannia because of them. I offered her a place to stay here."

"Well, you weren't far away enough," Isabelle replied. "She said that she had been forced to leave Londinium, because her enemies were closing in. It was the same in Eboracum, and now even this fort. She left it, she said, because they were coming here.

"I didn't understand who she was speaking about, but I _had_ connected the deaths of Julius Septimus and Cornelius Claudius with the order for _your_ death," Isabelle said. "I came back here as soon as I could to warn you. But I became confused when I got here, when Vanora told me it was only a bishop that was coming here. I didn't understand how he could be a threat."

Arthur gave a mirthless laugh.

"And then I saw the bishop's scribe," she frowned. "It didn't click at first – so stupid of me, I had remembered Cornelius Claudius in the same way. I'd seen that scribe before."

"He'd visited Maurus's estate," Arthur finished for her.

"Aye," she nodded, confused. "How did you know?"

"I'll tell you something about Bishop Germanius," Arthur replied harshly. "He used to be in the military. Stationed in Britannia. He was a friend of my father's. As was my father's second-in-command, Julius Septimus. And a man called Pelagius.

Pelagius was a man of the cloth, but he was respected throughout much of the military, because of his views. Gaius Avitus, of Pons Aelius, was a friend of him as well."

"A lot of this Pelagius's friends have ended up dead, haven't they?" Isabelle asked tentatively.

"Pelagius was largely responsible for my education," Arthur continued, as if uninterrupted. "His views on God and the Church and mankind were somewhat unorthodox, but they were sensible."

It was Isabelle turn to have comprehension dawn on her.

"Germanius had left the military in the mean time and had turned to the Church as well. Pelagius was happy to remain in his current position, but Germanius rose to power quickly and left for Rome.

"After my father died, Pelagius continued my education, while Septimus trained me to be an officer. When I was twelve, Pelagius was invited to teach in Rome. He left."

"And you followed in your father's footsteps," Isabelle concluded.

"A few years later, yes," Arthur said.

"And now Julius Septimus, Gaius Avitus, and Cornelius Claudius are all dead," Isabelle murmured. "And you are supposed to be dead." She looked him sharply in the eye. "Where is Pelagius now?"

"A few days ago I was told he had been excommunicated and killed a year ago."

Isabelle nodded, the pieces of the tale having come together. "He was part of the group that wanted to reform the Church."

"He was the leader of that group."

"Who killed him?"

"Germanius and his followers did," Arthur answered, his face a hard mask. "Pelagius's teachings condemned their practices."

"And Germanius spent the last year making sure every last bit of Pelagius's influence was rooted out," Isabelle spoke grimly.

"From his old friend's son to every last soldier who followed his teachings," Arthur added bitterly.


	53. A Glimpse of Home

**A/N: A much speedier update than last time! Enjoy!

* * *

**

**A Glimpse of Home**

"Well," Isabelle said, after a long pause. "Now what do we do?"

Arthur looked her in the eye. "There is nothing we can do. Germanius has too much influence."

"He is going to get away with it," Isabelle said incredulously.

"Yes," Arthur replied raggedly. "And the Rome I've been waiting to return to, is dead."

"Oh, Arthur," Isabelle sighed. "The Rome I know is inside you, was never real. Despite what Pelagius might have wanted." She gave him a jaded smile. "Greed and personal gain have always ruled man. This place, this world – " her voice caught, "is governed by blood and metal, cruelty and ruthlessness. There is no place here for what's right or just. Hasn't Dagonet's death told you this?"

Arthur stared at her, his face stricken with pain. "I have no reply to that," he conceded. "But even so, we must fight to try and stop it."

"And create more bloodshed."

Arthur shook his head. "I know you've – " He looked up, past Isabelle. "Gawain?"

Gawain was standing behind them, his eyes fixed on Isabelle, as taken aback by Isabelle's weary statement as Arthur had been.

"Gawain?"

"The Woad Guinevere has brought some of her people," Gawain said, after clearing his throat. "I was in the square and saw them. They seemed to be having some trouble convincing the guards we had established a truce, so I thought I'd bring them here."

"A truce?" Isabelle gaped.

"Yes, thank you, Gawain," Arthur replied.

Gawain nodded and walked back to the doors, gesturing the people waiting outside it to come in. Isabelle watched curiously.

The woman Gawain had pointed out earlier as Guinevere was there, walking alongside a wiry man with a brown tangle of hair. He didn't look particularly old, but he had an wizened air about him as if he'd seen the world and held it in his hand.

"Merlin," she breathed, skin prickling all over her body.

"Yes," Arthur said. "Will you wait here, Isabelle? There are a few more things I'd like to speak to you about."

"Of course."

Isabelle remained in her seat, while Arthur stood and walked to the group of Woads to greet them. Besides Guinevere and Merlin there were three more people, two men and a woman.

The men looked like seasoned warriors, and were probably trusted men of Merlin. It was the woman that caught her undivided attention, however. She was as black-haired as the woman Guinevere, and her eyes were pools of black. Her skin was very pale and strangely translucent, as if she'd never seen sunlight.

She stood a little to the side, her head tilted, listening to the others, as if she were observing them. It reminded Isabelle vaguely of Tristan, though this woman was very different. Tristan, though particularly observant and quiet, was not an outsider. He chose sometimes – often – not to partake in a conversation or a gathering, but still, he was a member of an intricately woven group. He belonged.

This woman did not belong. She was observing the others as if she were not a part of it, as if she were merely looking in from the outside. She had a slightly patronizing air to her, as if she knew more. Judgmental even, Isabelle thought, frowning.

She looked odd, and out of place, and for some reason, Isabelle couldn't keep her eyes of the woman, who now seemed to be taking an interest in her as well. She kept shooting fleeting glances at Isabelle, which became longer every time.

After the rather tense and uncomfortable introductions, the woman wandered off to where Isabelle was seated. The look in her eyes was appraising, to say the least. "Well, well," she then said. "You've travelled a very long way, haven't you?"

"Sorry?" Isabelle sputtered.

"How far exactly?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Morgan!" Merlin called.

The woman looked back, seeing the Woad leader beckon her. She turned back and smiled a smile full of pointy teeth. Isabelle recoiled at the sight of the knowing expression on Morgan's face. Who was this woman?

"If you'll excuse me," Morgan said. "Wait for me, would you? I'd like to ask you what year you were born."

Isabelle's stomach plummeted like a heavy stone and she stared after the Woad with a slack jaw. Gawain was watching her with a concerned frown. He was standing near Arthur, all too obvious in his objective of guarding his commander.

Morgan joined Merlin and exchanged a few words with him, and made to move away again. Guinevere spoke up in her native tongue, to which Morgan gave an almost dismissive reply in the same language, before walking back to Isabelle. Guinevere looked affronted and angry.

"Who the hell are you?" Isabelle hissed, as soon as Morgan had returned to her.

"My name is Morgan," the woman replied simply. "But I'd like to know who you are."

"I just live here," Isabelle said curtly.

"But you weren't born here," Morgan replied. "Your accent… I can't place it."

"I was born in Gaul."

"Gaul?" Morgan repeated. "Really? And when were you born?"

"I am seventeen," Isabelle answered, through tight lips.

Morgan laughed, throwing her head back. "That's not what I asked."

"I don't know what you mean."

Morgan's black eyes were measuring her again. "You're hiding it very well. I haven't seen such a good act in… the gods know how many years, actually."

"What act?" Isabelle growled.

"As if you belong here," Morgan answered. "But you don't." She chuckled. "You can always tell who's a traveller."

"A what?"

"Don't pretend to be an idiot," Morgan snarled. "If you were, you wouldn't have survived this long."

"Listen," Isabelle said heatedly. "I don't know who you are or what you want from me, but – "

"What I want," Morgan interrupted her, "is to know from where you came."

"I told you, I'm – "

"And I also want to know from _when_ you came."

Isabelle snapped her mouth shut, staring wide-eyed at the Woad.

"Oh, aye," Morgan smirked. "Cat got your tongue now? I could sniff you out a mile away. It's not difficult, of course. Travellers stick out like a sore thumb." She leaned a little into Isabelle, the smirk becoming wider. "We always do."

"We?" Isabelle repeated, dumbfounded.

"Aye, _we_. You noticed that about me too. Why else were you watching me like that? You knew what I was the moment you saw me," Morgan answered, her obsidian eyes glittering. "I was born here. But I haven't always been here. Now I'm still waiting for an answer."

"What answer?"

"When are you from?"

"I – I…" Isabelle hesitated, still distrusting of the strange woman.

"Well?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Morgan shrugged. "Because I'm curious. I haven't seen another traveller in a few years now."

"How many are there?" Isabelle exclaimed, unable to help herself.

"How should I know?" Morgan scoffed. "Oh, did you think you were the only one?"

Pain flashed through Isabelle with an intensity she hadn't felt in some time now. "No," she whispered. "I know I'm not the only one."

Morgan seemed to sober a bit. "Who did you know that was a traveller?"

"My sister."

"She didn't survive?"

Isabelle shook her head. "She protected me when I had just got here. Kept me from the worst of it. And when she couldn't take it anymore, she killed herself."

Morgan frowned. "The worst?"

Isabelle ran her hands through her hair. "Slavery and violence take some getting used to." She lowered her hands, looking at them as if they were covered with something dirty. "I've learned to get used to it."

"Ah, from a time to come yet, then," Morgan said. "That's where you're from. And a very long time too, by the sound of it."

Isabelle looked at the Woad. "More than fifteen hundred years," she said quietly.

Morgan blinked.

"Cat got your tongue?" Isabelle said, throwing Morgan's own remark back at her.

The Woad cleared her throat. "That was more than I expected. I've only ever met one person who came from that far. He was found by us, and stayed with us for a while. But he got himself killed; he could _not_ get used to it." She tilted her head in the same scrutinising manner she'd used earlier. "How old were you when you came here?"

"I was nine."

"Nine," Morgan repeated softly. "How could you have possibly survived? But no wonder you can hide it so well, that you don't belong here. You've been here for so long."

"I only survived because I wasn't alone," Isabelle said.

"You came together with your sister then?"

"Aye, with her and a few more."

"A group?" Morgan asked surprised.

"Aye," Isabelle said. "All of them died, save one. She's here too. I hadn't seen her in years – we'd been separated when… we'd been sold – and a few months ago I met her again. She'd come to the Wall with her mistress."

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "I am not surprised."

That was not a reply Isabelle had expected. "Why?"

"I do not know why this is so, but travellers seem to be drawn to places of passage. It's why I've met quite a few of them. For some reason, they always drift back to such a place."

"What?" Isabelle breathed. "Are you saying…"

"Aye," Morgan nodded. "There is a small lake not ten miles from here, it is where I travel through. If you want to return home, I could take you there."

Rooted to the spot, Isabelle just stared.

"Are you feeling all right?" Morgan asked, after a long silence.

"No, I… I never thought…"

"What?"

"I never thought there was a way back home."

"There's always a way home."

Isabelle's eyes were suddenly stinging. She took a step back from Morgan, blinking to clear her vision.

"Isabelle!"

Arthur was coming towards her. "There are things I need to discuss with Merlin about the Saxons, but we hadn't quite finished our conversation."

"What else was there to it?" Isabelle said, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter that we know it was Germanius. We can't touch him."

"No, we can't," Arthur agreed, his jaw tightening. "That's not what I meant, though. Is Andrivete still at this Servilia's estate?"

"Aye."

"Could you have Jols send a messenger to her, to warn her of the invasion? And of Germanius? You know where the estate is."

"Of course," Isabelle answered. Having the whole story of Andrivete revealed, had softened Isabelle somewhat. She could understand only too well why Andrivete had wanted to extract information from her.

"Also," Arthur continued. "A caravan is leaving for the south at dawn tomorrow. Rome is withdrawing her forces from Britain. Many of the fort's residents are going with the military and the knights."

He looked at her. "What about you? Where will you go?"

Isabelle inhaled a heavy breath. "I don't know. You know how things have been. I don't think that…" She bit her lip.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, briefly placing his hand on her shoulder. "But you should think about it. The brunt of the attack will fall here. It'll be too dangerous to stay."

"Aye," she said softly. "I understand. I just… Excuse me."

Isabelle left Arthur and Morgan standing there, dashing from the Hall, through the corridor, and out into the biting winter air. She gulped in large breaths, her hands on her knees. The churning in her stomach did not stop and she had to swallow several times to keep from retching. There was a way home, tantalisingly close. All these years she'd thought it was impossible, that she'd never be able to go back. After all of the months living in the fort, not knowing that home was just ten miles away, accepting that this was the world she lived in. After cutting off all of Claire's _what ifs_…

Claire.

She had to find her. Andrivete hadn't brought her along to Servilia's estate, because she'd wanted to isolate Isabelle in order to gain some answers from her, which meant that Claire had to still be in the fort.

Isabelle headed to Andrivete's rooms near Arthur's, the clear goal helping her to keep her wits about her. The room was empty, but a laundry maid informed her that Claire and Celia were at the market. Isabelle paced the empty corridor, until they returned.

"Clara, I must speak to you at once," she burst out the moment the couple rounded the corner.

Celia eyed her curiously; Isabelle had to restrain herself not to sneer, knowing that Celia's prattling had sparked Andrivete's interest in her. "In private," she added.

Claire sent an apologetic look to Celia and followed Isabelle outside. "What is it?" she asked, once Isabelle had found a quiet spot and turned to face her.

Isabelle opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

"What?" Claire repeated, concerned now. "Is it my mistress? Has she returned yet?"

Isabelle winced. "She's not your mistress. You're free. And no, she isn't back. That's not why I need to speak to you."

"Then what is it?"

"There are Woads in –" She swallowed her last words, and tried again. "Arthur made a truce with the Woads, because there is a Saxon invasion. That's why there are Woads in the fort."

"Saxons?" Claire shrieked.

"Shh!" Isabelle glared at her. "You'll cause a panic. Listen to me, Arthur is meeting with the Woads to devise a strategy. One of them came to me – she, she just knew about where I came from. Where we came from."

Claire seemed to have trouble following her rambled speech. "I don't understand."

"She's the same as you and me, Claire," Isabelle hissed. "Only she's from here, but then travelled to other places."

"What?" Claire said slowly. "There are more like us?"

"Aye, that's what she said," Isabelle nodded. "And also – she told me where she has travelled through."

"Where _she_ travelled through? But… She couldn't have used the same cave, could she?" Claire panted, grabbing Isabelle's arm. "Are you saying… Where…?"

"There is a lake only ten miles from here," Isabelle told her.

Claire stayed silent, her mouth forming into an small O, tears gathering in her eyes. "You mean," she said in a small voice, "I can go home?"

"Aye, she said she would show us where it was."

"Oh, Isabelle, take me to her," Claire exclaimed, now taking both of Isabelle's arms and shaking her. "Take me to her right now."

"All right, all right!" Isabelle agreed, prying herself loose. "She must still be in the Hall with Arthur. We'll go see her now."

Isabelle and Claire walked back to the Hall, Isabelle nearly dragged along by Claire, who kept mumbling that she'd be home the same day. They had to wait in front of the doors, as the meeting between Arthur and Merlin had not finished yet. Claire fidgeted impatiently, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Isabelle had never seen her this lively.

Isabelle leaned against the wall, pressing the back of her head against the cold stones, and waited. The voices that came through the doors were indiscernible, but Isabelle listened to the constant murmur with a detached interest.

She felt numb. Too much was happening. The bishop's betrayal of Arthur and the solving of the mystery that had eluded them for so long, the absurd mission the knights had been sent on, culminating in Dagonet's death, the truce with Merlin, the Saxon invasion, the unresolved situation between Gawain and herself, and now Morgan's offer.

In her mind she could look at each of the happenings separately, as long as she didn't think about anything else. She felt as if her head should be in chaos, but she just couldn't think. She _would_ not think, because if she didn't keep all of it at bay, if she let it all in, she didn't know what would happen. The stone she was pushing her head against, was hurting her, but it only made her force it against the sharp ridges harder, staring at the opposite wall with unblinking eyes.

Claire grabbed her again when the doors opened. Arthur and the Woads filed out, Arthur and Merlin still talking quietly. The two Woad men were up front, followed by the two former enemies, trailed by Guinevere. Morgan was a little behind them all, a slight sneer aimed at the other woman's back.

Seeing Isabelle's questioning look, Morgan steered towards them and tossed her head in Guinevere's direction. "My little cousin, always so eager to fight in the front. Willing to do whatever it takes for what she thinks is right."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Isabelle frowned.

Morgan scoffed. "She knows nothing, but that doesn't stop her. Always rushing ahead. The last time I saw her, she was leading a group on a deluded mission against the Romans your knights brought back. It got all of her warriors killed and she herself was imprisoned for weeks. She had to be saved by _Arthur_, of all people."

"You're judging her for her knowledge?" Isabelle asked. "Seems to me you have a rather unfair advantage over her."

Morgan grinned in response to Isabelle's dry tone. "Maybe I do, but it's her refusal to listen that I judge her for." She shrugged. "At least she listens to Merlin, and Merlin always listens to me."

At Claire's shocked intake of breath, Morgan turned her black obsidian eyes to her. "And who's this?"

"This is Claire," Isabelle answered. "She's like us – the one I told you about."

Morgan seemed to study the both of them. Isabelle knew it was because they were from so far away. "Aye," the Woad said slowly. "I see."

Claire seemed frightened by the dark woman, so Isabelle spoke up. "I told her about the lake. She wants to go home. Would you take her there?"

Morgan's eyebrows shot up. "Right now?"

"I know you're pressed for time," Isabelle said, "with the impending attack. But if something goes wrong and we'll be cut off from the lake by the Saxons, there'll be no opportunity to get home."

Morgan appeared to ponder that for a moment, looking as if she wanted to argue that, but then conceded. "Fine, I will take you there. I have some preparations to take of for Merlin first. I don't expect to be back before midnight. Make sure you're ready by then. We won't have much time."

She looked at Isabelle. "You'll need to provide a horse for her and yourself."

"Myself?" Isabelle stammered. "What – I don't – "

"You're not coming?" Morgan inquired, intrigued.

"Well, I – I hadn't..."

"What are you saying, Isabelle?" Claire asked, panicking.

"I just – I didn't – I haven't thought about it yet," she stuttered.

"What do you mean? You _are_ going with me, aren't you?" Claire cried. "What of your parents, they deserve to have their daughter back! And be told about your sister! You must go with me!"

"Go where?" Gawain asked, standing between the doors of the Hall.

The three women whirled around to face him; Isabelle felt the blood drain her face.

"Isabelle?" Gawain frowned. "Go _where_?"


	54. The Way Home

****

A/N: I'm so ashamed. I realized I had not updated this story since March. All of the remaining chapters had been finished, except this one. I couldn't get it right. So I decided I needed a good kick in the part I usually sit on, and start revising it. And what happened was that this chapter took the story in a new direction, so that I had to rewrite the ending.

**I hope you like the result. The other chapters will be following very quickly.**

**Happy holidays everyone!**

* * *

_The broken lights on the freeway_

_Left me here alone_

_I may have lost my way now_

_Haven't forgotten my way home_

**_"Broken", Lifehouse_**

* * *

**The Way Home**

"Isabelle?" Gawain said once again. "What is this all about?"

Isabelle opened her mouth, but nothing was coming out of it. She just couldn't _think_. She didn't want to have to deal with everything that had happened. It was all too much, too overwhelming.

And now, to be faced with Gawain… "I can't," she choked.

"Isabelle, tell him!" Claire demanded.

"You stay out of this, woman," Gawain snarled. "What the hell is going on?"

Isabelle looked from Gawain to Claire, who'd shrunk away from the knight's outburst, and felt her heart clench in pity. It was painfully obvious that being in this place was wearing Claire down – had been wearing her down since she'd come here. She needed to be home in order to regain some part of the person she'd been before her ordeal.

And she, didn't she need the same thing herself? It was so tempting to take Morgan up on her offer and leave all this behind. She would have her childhood home back, her parents, her safety.

Isabelle!" Gawain barked.

Her eyes snapped back to him. He was so angry, as if he somehow sensed what was going on.

"Go _where_?" he repeated himself.

She took a shuddering breath. "Leave me be!" she begged and escaped Gawain's anger and confusion, as well as the looming presence of her decisions, by taking off.

Gawain called her name, now more bewildered than angry, and made to go after her.

"No!" Claire cried out, stepping in his way. She pushed against his chest with both hands. "You'll try to convince her to stay here, you selfish bastard!"

Caught off-guard by that heated remark, Gawain forewent his intention to simply brush past her and stopped dead. "What?" he said.

"She'll stay here for you!" Claire spat, balling her fists in front of her.

"What on earth are you talking about, woman?" Gawain retorted. He looked her up and down, having seen her as nothing but timid and downcast until now. "Of course she's staying with me!"

Gawain froze, surprised by his own words. He had no time to dwell on them, however, because Claire had now started shaking. "No!" she wrung from her throat. "Over my dead body."

Gawain leaned into her and said in a low tone, "I don't see how it's any of your business."

"I owe it to her," Claire said. "I owe it to her to make sure she's safe."

"She's safe with me. More so than with you, I reckon," Gawain sneered.

"Really?" Claire scoffed. "How were you going to keep her safe, when you go off to yet another war? What have you got to offer her besides more bloodshed and death?"

"We'll be leaving this island. She's coming home with me."

"Home!" Claire shrieked, eyes shining with tears. "You call that home? You'll be taking her back into another war! What were you going to do once you're there? Make a home, raise a family? If you don't get yourself or _her _killed in some barbarian battle, you'll have to force her to give up her sons to the Roman army! Just like you!"

Gawain gritted his teeth, looking away. Denial was something he rarely indulged in, and so it was impossible for him to put her words aside. Clara had just put a cruel finger on a very sore spot.

"Is that something you want to put her through? Don't you think she's been through enough?" Claire continued. "Morgan can take her home, to her family. She'll be safe there, without people being butchered everywhere. She'll live in peace. No more blood, no more violence."

"Gaul is not without violence," Gawain countered. "No place is."

"Gaul is not where we come from," Claire said. "Not the Gaul you know anyway."

"What does that mean?" he demanded. "Isabelle told me she was born there."

Claire shrieked out a harsh laugh. "She told you… Oh, this is ridiculous. All of it, it's completely ridiculous!"

"Woman, have you gone mad?" Gawain snapped at her.

"Maybe I have," she chuckled. "But if I'm mad, then so is Isabelle. And so is she!" She waved a wild finger at Morgan, who stood watching it all unfold with detached interest. Frankly, there was something about that Woad that grated on Gawain's nerves.

"You don't know Isabelle," Claire hissed. "You might think you do, but you don't know anything about her. You don't know where she was born, in what year. You don't know which language she spoke as a child. How can you, when it's a language you've never heard in your life – _will_ never hear in your life."

Gawain recoiled from her. "You're rambling."

"Has she told you her parents' names?" Claire asked him. When he stayed silent, she continued, "Did you know she has a brother?"

"What?"

"Oh yes," Claire breathed. "Her parents are still alive and as far as we know, so is her brother."

"She told me she had no family left," Gawain said. "Not after Anna died."

"She has family!" Claire snapped. "Family who wants nothing more than to get their daughter back. She just can't get to them."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Claire shook her head. "_Couldn't_ get to them. But now we've found a way. Morgan can take us back. To our families. She can take us back today."

"What?" Gawain sputtered, completely bewildered. "How?"

Morgan finally stepped in. "I assume you have wise men in your tribe?"

Gawain blinked. "What? Of course."

The Woad smiled. "How do you think they became so wise?"

The knight obviously had no clue what she was talking about. "Because they have lived the longest. They have gained the most experience."

"No," Morgan denied. "I'll agree that it is useful to have a clear eye on your past, but it is the knowledge of what lies ahead that makes you wise."

"You two are increasingly making less sense," Gawain commented, confused. "How can anyone know what lies ahead? And what does this have to do with Isabelle?"

"All you have to do to gain that knowledge," Morgan smiled, "is see the future."

"Are you speaking about prophets?" Gawain frowned. "Oracles?"

The Woad laughed out loud. "There is no such thing as a prophet or an oracle. There is only people who've seen the future."

"Aye, which is what makes them oracles," Gawain deadpanned.

"Oh no, it doesn't. They do not see more than normal people, they are not special in any way."

"Seeing the future is seeing more than most people," Gawain replied dryly.

"You misunderstand me," Morgan said. "There is no such thing as clairvoyance. The only way to see the future is to _be_ in the future."

Gawain gaped at the woman in a long, deafening silence, before he shook his head and closed his mouth. "Holy gods, you're insane, the lot of you."

"Just because there are things you don't understand, knight, doesn't make them untrue," Morgan said. "I've seen what's coming. I've been there. Isabelle and Claire _belong_ there."

Gawain believed without a doubt that the two women standing in front of him had lost their wits. He didn't know what they'd said to Isabelle to make her believe them, but he would get that out of her later. He responded to Morgan's ominous statement with a snort. "They belong in the future? A future that you've seen? Oh, pray tell, wise one, what have you seen?"

"A Saxon Britannia," she hissed. "Blood and fire and death, in an endless flow. Our ways destroyed. Eventually there will only be a few small strongholds left and they will be overrun too. They must be stopped."

Gawain paled. "Is this why your Guinevere won't leave Arthur alone? You need him to stop them, don't you?" he deduced.

"Arthur is a Briton. These are his people," Morgan answered. "And he will protect them."

He failed to keep the mocking tone out of his voice. "This is something you have seen as well?"

She looked him squarely in the eye, but kept silent. The absolute certainty in those shining, obsidian orbs made him uncomfortable. "Yes."

He scoffed. "Arthur is going to Rome. He has served his time on this demon-infested island, as have we."

Morgan tilted her head, reminding Gawain of Tristan's hawk. "You pretend you don't believe me when I say that Arthur will stay in Britannia. I know what I have seen, so I don't need to believe. I've already been there. But tell me something, knight, why is it that you, who have not seen it, still know in your heart that what I say is true?"

* * *

It wasn't true, it couldn't be true. Morgan's words as he had left her ran through Gawain's mind.

"It doesn't matter whether you believe me or not," she had said. "All that matters is that Isabelle goes back to where she belongs. This isn't her life and you have nothing to offer her. She is too different from this world. It would never work. It has never worked before."

It had been an incentive for Clara to start again, details from Isabelle's home spilling from her lips, so many of them and so detailed that all Gawain had been able to do was stare at her. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to shut the woman up or hear more about what was to come. The things she knew, that the both of them knew…

And now, as he looked Isabelle in the eye, in their room, where he'd found her, his mind reeled from having heard the same story from her.

When he remembered his brother-in-arms Bran, the bottom dropped out of his stomach. "That lake," he croaked. "I know of it."

Nearly eight years ago, they'd been patrolling that area. Bran had wandered off in search of water and had never returned. They'd found his horse grazing on the shores of the lake. There was no trace of its rider. At the time they'd assumed that he had been dragged off by Woads who'd ventured south unusually far, though there were no tracks that indicated that someone else had been present, let alone signs of a struggle. All they had been able to find, were footprints leading into the lake. There had never been a body found washed ashore.

Could there be truth in Morgan's words? And if so, shouldn't Isabelle get the chance to go home, where there was peace? Sarmatia would only give her more war. The tribes had been fighting the Huns for decades now and the Romans still claimed Sarmatian sons for their armies.

The thought of giving up his own sons to fight in a foreign empire's wars was nauseating to him, but forcing Isabelle to give up her children was not something he thought he had in him.

"If you have a chance of going home," he said, "you should take it."

Isabelle frowned in bewilderment. "I didn't think you would believe me."

Gawain shook his head. "I don't know what to believe. But if you can go back to your family and live without war, then you should go. This is no place for you. Britannia or Sarmatia – it's the same. It will kill you."

"I can protect myself," Isabelle said softly. "If you'd take me with you…"

"No," he snapped fiercely. He would not take her to Sarmatia to subject her to the loss of her children.

She gasped in pain. "I see," she whispered with a trembling voice.

It was better to give her the chance of going to a safer place, even if he did not understand fully how.

"Go home, Isabelle," he told her, her tearful, desperate eyes cutting him in two. "You do not belong here."

Isabelle held her breath, biting her lip. "Maybe…" she whispered, "maybe I do. Maybe, with a reason to stay here, I could belong."

Gawain knew what she was asking him. He wished he could give it to her. He wanted to. But what kind of man would he be if he resumed their relationship and gave her hope, while all he could really give her was an extended wait for more bloodshed and death?

Clara's tale had confused him utterly, but there was something about Morgan that made it very difficult to put her claims simply aside. There'd been an icy spot in his stomach when he'd looked at her, a feeling he'd not experienced since his first days as a knight. Gawain remembered the young lad who didn't understand a single thing about the island he'd been stationed on, much less its blue people.

Over the years he'd come to know what to expect, had learned more about the natives, and had been drenched in blood so thoroughly that there was nothing left in the world that would faze him. But Morgan and her black eyes made him feel like that lad again, without any understanding of and grasp on the world around him.

There were stranger stories in his people's lore. And Gawain, who'd been brought up as a decent Sarmatian son, did not doubt his forefathers.

Maybe Morgan was wrong after all. Maybe she wasn't right in her mind. Maybe all three of them weren't right in the head. But if there was a chance of Isabelle getting home, Gawain was not going to stand in the way. He knew it was the right thing to do, sending Isabelle away from here. She would know peace, she would heal.

He remembered her jaded remark to Arthur all too clearly. "This place, this world is governed by blood and metal, cruelty and ruthlessness. There is no place here for what's right or just."

Knowing what he knew now, that sentence took on a whole new meaning.

Clara was right, this was no place for Isabelle. If he kept her here, she would only become more damaged. Even though his decision was hurting her now, it was better to send her away, so it would hurt her less in the end.

She had already lost so much. Her childhood, her freedom, her sister, Kay, Dagonet… Gawain knew that the list would only continue to grow if she remained by his side.

"There are plenty reasons for you to go home," he answered, trying to keep his voice under control. "But there are none for you to stay."

He could no longer look at the pain in her eyes.

"I love you," she whispered, tears choking her voice. "I wish you could forgive me."

Gods, she still thought this was about Tristan. Maybe it was better this way.

"It does not matter, Isabelle," he growled. "Go home. You have a chance for safety, a peaceful life. Take it."

"Gawain…"

"Enough of this! There is nothing here for me, and there certainly is nothing here for you!"

The silence that fell between them was absolute.

"I see." He could barely hear her voice, it was so soft and broken. "I'm sorry."

"Just go." He clenched his jaw, looking away.

"I'll leave you. I have to pack some things and change. I'll leave the wrist bands you gave me behind – they're yours, after all. I won't need them anymore."

Gawain heard her choke back a sob. "I'm sorry, Gawain," she said again. "I never meant to hurt you. I lov –"

"I said, just go!" he growled, turning his back on her.

After a few moments he heard quiet footsteps and then the door of his room softly shutting.

* * *

Isabelle numbly changed out of her dress and into her thickest tunic and trousers. Despite the Saxons' confinement on the other side of the Wall and the new alliance with the Woads, she fastened her belt around her hips and armed herself. Old habits died hard. Though, she mused, it would be a habit she had to give up quickly once she was home. One of the things she remembered was that walking around armed to the teeth was not considered normal.

She tucked the pendant that Kay had given her before he'd died back under her clothes, after tracing the carved eye with one finger, and sat on the bed to put on her boots.

She wrapped her cloak around her and left her room for the stables, pulling the door firmly shut behind her without a backward glance.

When she'd saddled a horse and led it out into the courtyard, Claire was already waiting for her, bundled up against the cold. Her eyes were shining even in the dark and she could not stand still. "Have you seen Morgan yet?" she called out.

Isabelle shook her head.

"Oh," Claire moaned happily, rubbing her arms. "I can't wait any longer."

"Aye," Isabelle said softly.

A wiry figure slinked out of the darkness. "Are you ready?" Morgan asked.

"Finally!" Claire exclaimed.

"Aye," Isabelle answered the Woad's question. "Clara is going to ride with me. Where is your horse?"

"At the gate," Morgan answered. "I just got back."

"Did everything go according to plan?" Isabelle asked, remembering Morgan's remark on the preparations Merlin wanted her to finish.

"Aye, every single one of our people who is close by enough is coming to Badon Hill as we speak," Morgan nodded. "The plans are ready and the fields are being prepared."

"And we'll not have to see that slaughter," Claire said sharply.

Isabelle looked wearily at her. "No, we won't."

She missed the inquisitive look Morgan sent her way, because she turned around to grab her horse's reins. "Let's go."

"Follow me," Morgan said.

Isabelle sighed and followed the Woad to the gate, where Morgan went to retrieve her horse. The gates were open, though heavily guarded, to allow its residents to head south. Isabelle watched a man she didn't know lead a packhorse out of the gate, one arm wrapped around a woman's shoulders.

She sighed and leaned her forehead against the horse's neck, trying to swallow the constricting lump in her throat.

"No goodbye this time?"

Isabelle spun around, finding Tristan leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Suddenly she did not care that Tristan was not a man of public displays of affections. She ran towards him, flinging herself against him.

His body stiffened, but to her surprise and relief he uncrossed his arms after a moment and wrapped them around her.

Isabelle closed her eyes, pressing her face into his coat. She inhaled the strong scent of earth and grass, horse and man, and let herself be comforted by it. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "Nobody had seen you for hours."

"Scouting."

"What's there to scout?" she snorted. "You had not located the enemy's position yet? Perhaps you missed the two hundred camp fires on the other side of the Wall? Besides, what does it matter? You won't even be here tomorrow."

Tristan did not answer that last remark. "The way to the lake is clear," he merely said.

She froze. "What did you say?" she muttered, jerking her head up. "You know about the lake? How?"

He shrugged. "We've come across it a few times. It's a strange place indeed."

"A strange place… Oh God, you know. How did you…?"

"You were all speaking very loudly," Tristan replied simply.

"You were listening in on us," Isabelle stated.

He shrugged again.

She snorted in amusement at his unrepentant face and rested her head against his shoulder again. "You'll not try to dissuade me from going?" she asked.

Isabelle could not see Tristan's mouth twist. His voice was even, however, when he replied, "You've already made your choice."

There was more than one choice implied.

Isabelle closed her eyes. She'd never asked him his reasons for not wanting to be close to her. She doubted he would have told her himself. From Kay and his brothers-in-arms she'd gathered that it was simply his way. The distance, the aloofness, it was his survival mechanism.

She shouldn't even think about it right now. She'd accepted it when she'd accepted that they were not meant to be. And now Gawain had sent her away, not accepting her. Her only option was going home. Everything had fallen apart.

"Even so, I will miss you," she breathed. "You must know that."

"I know." He wound his fingers in her hair, ignoring the curious look from the Woad and the slave girl. He needed to savour the feel of her.

"I told you I didn't want to say goodbye to you before the bishop's mission," Isabelle continued. "And now I have to do it again."

Tristan sighed. "This will be the last time," he said quietly.

"It will, won't it?" she replied sadly. "We'll all be going home."

"Isabelle," Morgan called. "We have to leave."

Isabelle didn't move, nor acknowledge she'd heard the Woad in any other way. "I'm glad you will finally be able to go home," she told Tristan. She pulled back to look him in the eye. "You deserve it."

"Home," he repeated, shaking his head slightly. "I have no family to return to."

Instinctively, Isabelle knew this was the only glimpse into Tristan's past she would ever get.

"It's not home I wanted, it was freedom."

"You have it now."

He shook his head again, slower this time.

She frowned. "Tristan, you look exhausted."

A tired grin flitted across Tristan's face for a moment. "I've been scouting a lot."

"Isabelle," Morgan pressed. "We don't have much time."

"Aye, I'm coming," Isabelle called back. She heaved a sigh. "Well, goodbye then, Tristan."

"Do you want to go?" he asked abruptly.

She looked up in surprise at the urgency in his voice. "I have home waiting for me, don't I?" she answered. "It's not here, that much is clear to me now."

"Isabelle…"

"I'll get to see my family again," she continued. "I'm very happy about that."

"You're happy?"

She gazed at him for a moment. She opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to change her mind and closed it again, looking away.

"Tristan, I do not regret… us," she told him suddenly. "I regret the way things have happened and how it's all turned out. More than anything, I regret having hurt Gawain. But I don't – I cannot regret my feelings for you, even though we're not what the other needs. It's just the way it is."

"The day I came to the shop," Tristan said, "when you screamed at me to leave you alone. Before you left with Andrivete, do you remember?"

"Hard to forget," she replied dryly.

He gave her a crooked smile. "That day I wanted to tell you what you've just told me."

* * *

Tristan remained behind, watching the figures of the three women disappear into the night.

Gawain was a fool, he thought. A complete and utter fool. Tristan recognised the selflessness in his comrade's choice, but it was foolish nonetheless. Tristan did not believe in a world without war, without bloodshed. He did not believe the beautiful tale Clara had spun to convince Gawain of a better home for Isabelle.

He would have kept her here with him. If she'd been his, he would never have let her go. It had been on the tip of his tongue. Stay, come with me.

Tristan muttered a curse under his breath. But she was not his, and he knew it. He would stand aside, having no say in the matter. He watched her go. Again.

Tomorrow he would leave for a land that he had no ties to, save for some childhood memories of things gone by. He would go there anyway, though, because it was where his brothers were going, the only ties he had left.

Home. They were all going home.

Tristan scoffed, shaking his head. He made his way up the Wall, to stare at the Saxon fires. Home. Tonight should be a joyous night. He'd not seen one happy face.

* * *

Isabelle rode silently, Clara seated behind her. She could sense Clara's excitement, but it did not affect her. Her limbs felt heavy and her lungs empty. She took a deep, ragged breath, but it did not help.

The night was clear and it was bitterly cold. Isabelle pulled the sleeves of her tunic further over her hands. She was going home, she had to keep that in mind. She was going to see her father and mother again, and her brother, the only sibling not in the caves when his sisters had got lost. And never returned.

Claire was right. They deserved to have their daughter back. It was for the best.

And it was not as if she had anything left here anyway. She flinched when she thought of Gawain's parting words. What had she expected of him, after the way she'd ruined the bond between him and a brother-in-arms? After the way she'd betrayed him?

"The first thing I'm going to do is take a bath," Claire sighed happily. "Then I'm going to drink hot chocolate and sleep in an actual bed instead of on a straw sack."

Isabelle closed her eyes, pushing back tears. It wasn't that she didn't want to see her family again. She did. All these years she had meticulously suppressed any memory she had of them, but it was as if a dam had been broken. She saw the faces of her father and brother, and remembered her mother's voice. She smelled lavender all the time now, her mother's favourite perfume.

The thought of hot chocolate even made her stomach growl. She hadn't even remembered it, until Claire had mentioned it.

"No dirt and mud to walk in, but paved roads," Claire continued. "Heated buildings and clean clothes every day."

Life would be much easier indeed.

"Living my own life," Claire laughed. "Not serving anyone else."

Freedom. Peace. Isabelle nodded. It would be a wonderful place to live in indeed. Silently, she rode on, following Morgan to the lake. It seemed like it took only minutes for them to reach it.

Morgan bound the horses to a tree branch and found a little path that led through the thick underbrush. The Woad made no sound at all, gliding past branches like a ghost.

Isabelle followed quietly, but not soundlessly, though any sounds she made were hidden in the noise Claire made. They came upon the shore of the lake. Isabelle peered into the darkness. "Is it a large lake? I can't see the other side."

"No, it's only a two-hour walk around it," Morgan answered. "There is just always mist hanging over it."

Claire walked closer to the shore. There were still a few ice crusts clinging to the pebbles, but the lake itself was not frozen. She dipped a finger in the water and shuddered. "And we actually have to get in?"

"Yes, just swim out to the middle of the lake. It always happens there," Morgan said.

"Unless we freeze halfway there," Claire snorted.

Isabelle suddenly shook her head. "No. What if we end up even farther from home? How do you know we will get back?"

Morgan looked at her, puzzled. "You will get back because that is where you belong. Nature always rights herself, one way or the other."

"If that is true, why did we end up here in the first place?" Isabelle retorted.

Claire gave an exasperated cry. "This is not the time for a philosophical discussion, Isabelle." She stretched out a hand towards the lake. "Can't you feel it? It's pulling us in."

"No," Isabelle lied firmly. "I can't feel it."

The tone in Isabelle's voice made Claire freeze. She slowly turned her head towards Isabelle. "You are not going back, are you? You're staying here," she whispered, aghast.

Isabelle hadn't realised she had already taken that decision, until Claire voiced it for her. An enormous sense of relief washed over her. "I'm staying," she said, blinking away tears.

"For God's sake, Isabelle, why?"

"I belong here," she said simply. "I have to stay."

"I have to go back," Claire whispered. "Please come with me."

Isabelle smiled. "I know you do." She strode over to the older girl and embraced her tightly. "But this is my home now." She gave Claire a little push. "Go. Go home. I'll be fine. And you'll be even better than fine."

Morgan watched silently with her dark, enigmatic eyes.

Claire stepped backwards into the water, suppressing a shiver. She turned and waded farther in, before turning back once more. "It was my fault, Isabelle," she said, her teeth chattering. "It was my fault that Gawain sent you away."

"What?"

"I told him he was selfish for wanting to keep you here, for wanting to take you to Sarmatia. I told him he shouldn't put you in another war, or force you to give up your children to the Roman army. He wanted you to stay with him."

Isabelle stumbled backwards, gasping, "Oh God."

"I'm sorry, Isabelle."

"Take me back, Morgan," Isabelle demanded. "Take me back now."

Morgan didn't respond, but continued to stare at her. There was nothing malevolent about her gaze, but the objective observance in it was blood-curdling nonetheless.

Isabelle whipped her head to the lake. Claire was gone.

"Morgan?" Isabelle said hesitantly.

The terrifying knowledge faded from the Woad's eyes. "Do you remember what I told you about nature righting herself?"

"Aye, why?"

"That is the reason no traveller remains in the wrong time," Morgan answered. "Nature doesn't like things being out of place. Sooner or later the world rights itself, one way or the other."

Isabelle laughed, suppressing a nervous shiver. "Well, I'm sure I've slipped through the net. I've been out of place for years now," she said, as she began to walk back to the horses.

Morgan followed at a distance. "Exactly."


	55. Badon Hill

**Badon Hill**

They arrived back at the fort just after dawn. Isabelle gasped as she saw the preparations for war. Woads and villagers were making their way to the hillside and the trees, lining up, while others ran back and forth, distributing arrows, or pouring thick, black liquid into trenches.

Peasants were dragging carcasses into the field, where they too were poured over with the same liquid, before they were set on fire. Isabelle reckoned this was where the foul-smelling smoke was coming from.

Morgan halted her mount, overseeing the chosen battlefield with a grim face. "Let's go," she said.

"Where are we going?" Isabelle asked.

"We're too late to catch the caravan," Morgan told her. "The Saxons will attack at any moment. I'm taking you to into the forest, to Guinevere. She's leading the archer's group from there. We'll see if you can still make it south before the battle or if you'll have sit it out and wait for the outcome."

Isabelle did not answer, but frowned at the odd tone in the Woad woman's voice, who spurred her horse into a gallop.

Guinevere positively gawked at Isabelle, before she composed herself. "You've come back? I thought you wanted to go home."

"I have another home now," Isabelle replied quietly.

"You should understand that, Guinevere," Morgan added snidely. "You've spent more than enough time and effort trying to convince Arthur _and_ his second-in-command."

Guinevere chose to ignore that and watched the last preparations below them intently. The field was cleared, only the burning carcasses remaining behind. The smell was revolting.

Isabelle's heart was pounding in her throat, in tune with the Saxon war drums, who were now sounding incessantly. Isabelle could see past Hadrian's Wall, where the Saxons were waiting in formation. On the hill to their left the lone figure of a knight was visible through the smoke, carrying a battle standard.

"What are we waiting for?" Isabelle murmured to Morgan, who had dismounted and seemed to be expecting something.

"The gates," Morgan answered, but her eyes were glued to the silhouette of the knight. "And hopefully something more."

A second figure appeared next to Arthur on the hill. Morgan's face shone with triumph as four more knights stopped by their side. "It looks like you were mistaken, Guinevere," she called. "It seems that Arthur's second-in-command and his knights believe in something after all. Proven wrong once again."

Guinevere did not respond to her cousin's taunt. She gazed at the gathered knights with something akin to hope in her face. Isabelle felt her heart lift too as she looked at the figures on the hill. They had chosen a new home. She prayed she would get the chance to convince Gawain that she had done the same.

"Go prepare yourself. There isn't much time," Guinevere told her kinswoman, snapping Isabelle out of her reverie.

"Nobody knows that better than I do," Morgan sneered and turned to Isabelle. "So you'll have to sit it out after all."

Isabelle gaped at her, wondering just how much Morgan knew, but followed her deeper into the woods, where they stumbled upon the last warriors preparing for battle. Men and women were strapping blades to their body, testing bows. Some were adding intricate designs of blue paint to their fellow warriors' skin, expressions both stern and reverent.

Isabelle felt like an intruder, but could not look away. Morgan's eyes began to shine with a fierce light as her people painted her with ancient symbols. When she turned her head and fixed Isabelle with that determined and terrifying look, Isabelle knew she had one more decision to make.

She drew her blades from their sheaths, checking them for imperfections. Satisfied with their pristine condition, she put them away and raised her chin. "It's my fight too now."

Morgan smiled and it wasn't pretty at all. She walked towards Isabelle and held up a cloth that was stained blue. "Then join us," she hissed. She drew the cloth over Isabelle's forehead and cheeks.

Another Woad joined Morgan in painting Isabelle's face, while Isabelle took off her restricting cloak and tunic, having it replaced with thick, protective leather. She shivered when her bare skin came into contact with the crisp winter air. Her arms and throat were painted as well, and it was Morgan who added symbols with a fine brush. "Protection, strength, courage," she murmured.

Isabelle felt slightly sick to her stomach when the implications of her decision hit her. She was willingly going to face the same monsters who'd attacked the fort all those months ago, this time without Kay to protect her.

"Can you shoot a bow?" Morgan asked her.

"A little," Isabelle answered fairly.

"Well, that's good enough," Morgan shrugged. "It'll be more difficult to miss than to hit anything, with that amount of Saxons."

"Thanks," Isabelle retorted, her attempt at sarcasm ruined by the high pitch of her voice.

"Rhys, give her a bow," Morgan ordered.

After accepting the bow from the tall, menacing-looking Woad, Isabelle followed Morgan back to the edge of the forest, from where they had a perfect view of the whole field. Morgan quickly explained the strategy Arthur and Merlin had devised and lined up next to her, near Guinevere.

A small group of Saxons detached itself from the main army, marching on the opened gates. A strange excitement buzzed through the Woads as they looked on. It affected Isabelle, whose nausea slowly vanished, replaced by a slight tension in the muscles of her body, breath quickening and heart pounding even louder than the Saxon drums.

She recognised the contagious current running through the entire group. Anticipation. Bloodlust. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Guinevere shouted her orders, preparing the archers. They waited until the Saxons had crossed the gates, slowly coming to a confused halt as they realised the field was completely abandoned.

Guinevere aimed her bow, followed by her warriors, and initiated a massacre. When she was not letting death rain down on the Saxons, Arthur and the knights tore through them, until the Saxons began killing their own, spooked by the smoke and invisible arrows and riders. It was over in a moment.

Isabelle blinked, impressed with the cold, calculative decimation.

A deafening roar went up behind the Wall, and the entire Saxon army began moving towards the gate. It seemed like an endlessly long time before the army had passed through, and the Woads were getting restless.

"Hold, hold," Guinevere called in a low voice.

The Saxons spread out and then split, the left flank heading towards the archers' trees, the centre towards Arthur, and the right flank towards the hill, where Merlin's group was quickly setting up artillery.

Guinevere gave a signal with her hand, and a Woad hurried along the ranks, lighting the arrows on fire. Following Arthur's command, the arrows were released, cutting the entire left flank in half.

Isabelle threw her bow to the side when Guinevere lifted her sword and screamed a war cry, before she stormed down from the tree line. Isabelle had never experienced anything like this, the fear and the thrill of throwing herself into a battle, not alone but surrounded by people who had the same goal, the same blood that began to boil, drowning every last bit of fear in anger and an unholy lust to spill the enemy's blood.

The armies collided and Isabelle found herself suddenly in the midst of chaos, deafened by roars and screams, clattering metal and whinnying horses. It was the complete opposite of the first attack; Isabelle had to struggle not to be overwhelmed.

She singled out one enemy and threw herself at him. Focussing on only one man helped her to stay sane, to not sink to the blood-sodden ground with her arms over her head.

One enemy, one victim, that was something she knew how to handle. While she finished her first Saxon off, she found that this approach helped her keep a modicum of calmness. And as this strategy continued to keep her alive, she grew more confident, selecting enemies she knew she could take on, and dancing away from Saxons too strong for her.

It was impossible to follow more of the battle than what was going on right in front of her. There were too many people too closely packed and the smoke was blinding everyone. A few times Isabelle felt, rather than saw, a mountain of metal riding past her at neck-breaking speed, always leaving more space in its wake, the ground littered with fur-clad bodies.

It just went on and on, more men coming at her. Isabelle could not afford to take a moment to recover. Her breath was wheezing in her ears. But gradually, though the fight did not let down, there seemed to be more space in some areas. It was easy to understand why; it was now becoming hard not to trip over bodies.

Isabelle saw a flash of a knight, struggling to stay atop of his horse, when several Saxons tried to drag him down, and another one on the ground, swinging an axe. The posture of that man was easily recognisable; it was Bors.

Isabelle could not watch longer than a moment before she had to defend herself again, but the next time she looked up, her heart stood still. A knight was shot from his horse, his long blond hair streaming down his back from under the helmet.

"Gawain!" she shrieked, but he had got up again, yanking the bolt from the same shoulder that had been injured only months ago. For one ridiculous moment Isabelle was flooded with a sense of pure exasperation. He'd only just managed to get that shoulder back to full strength.

Her eyes widened in dread when she saw the axe lifted above his head behind him, unseen by the still bent-over knight. She could do nothing from where she was standing, except scream. Scream and watch the reason she'd come back to this hell be cut down.

The Saxon fell to the ground, struck down by Arthur. Gawain saw nothing and threw himself in the fight again, and Isabelle lost him in the crowd, though she was already running in his direction. Relief making her light-headed, she dodged several swings at her and pushed through the crowd, screaming his name. She couldn't find him now that he was on the ground instead of his horse.

She cursed when she realised she had manoeuvred herself into a clash between a few Woads and a lot more Saxons. She ducked to the side towards an open spot, but at the same time had to pull up her defences against a new attack.

The fight was exhausting her. It had been going on forever. She spotted an opening in her current attacker's defence and used it immediately, giving herself a moment's breath.

Then Isabelle saw him, only a small distance away, dismounting. Tristan cut his way easily through the gathering Saxons, the swings of his sword concise and no more than necessary. It was his face that frightened her. She'd never seen it this way. Cold fury emanated from him in waves, but who he was looking at, she could not see.

A loud roar to her left distracted her. She saw Guinevere take on a Saxon thrice her size and get thrown on the ground. He lifted his axe to crush her skull.

Isabelle shot towards him, slipping behind his back, and slit the tendons of his knee. Immediately three more Woads joined her, trying to take the monstrously large man down. Teeth bared, Guinevere jumped on his back again, wrapping a string around his neck, while the others confined him, stabbing him where they could.

The Saxon's squirming ceased quickly. Isabelle exchanged a brief and fierce grin with Guinevere, before the Woad's eyes locked on something in the distance and Isabelle took off again.

She looked around for Tristan, her stomach clenching painfully. It was not normal for him to show this kind of reaction in battle. There were much less people around now and her eyes locked onto his tall and elegant posture after a while. He was fending off his attackers in a disturbingly efficient way, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on the figure that must have caused that fury in him.

Isabelle gasped, suddenly frozen solid. It was the leader of the Saxon attack on the fort. The ordeal of that blood- and smoke-filled night rushed back to her, making her gulp for air. She struggled to get herself back under control. It couldn't be him, Isabelle thought confused, Gawain had killed him. It had to be someone else. The resemblance was uncanny, though.

Tristan was heading straight towards him, bringing down the last Saxon standing in his path, and engaging the leader's bodyguard. Isabelle, unable to stop herself, began making her way towards them, horror building in her stomach when she realised something was off.

For an excruciatingly long moment she couldn't put her finger on it, but then she suddenly realised. It was Tristan. She'd seen him fight often enough before. Though his movements still possessed that typical elegance of his, they were slower than usual. Tristan usually glided around his victims, quick and elusive, but now his feet were firmly planted on the ground.

"Oh my God," she breathed. Last night she'd seen the deep purple shadows under his eyes, the pasty skin, and his dirty and unwashed appearance.

"I've been scouting a lot," he'd said.

Had he slept at all that night? Had he even slept during the mission?

The bodyguard died, crumpling at Tristan's feet. The Saxon leader watched the knight closely, like a cat would a mouse, while Tristan pushed his helmet from his head.

A moment long they both waited, swords at the ready. Tristan attacked first, testing the waters with long, graceful strikes. The Saxon leader's defence was of an entirely different style, but just as effective. Neither warrior was able to draw blood. Swords pressed against each other, they sized each other up again.

"No, no," Isabelle cursed. The Saxon was extremely good – he would have to be, in order to command a band of Saxons. And Tristan was not himself. She had almost reached the open spot where the two warriors were standing.

A second attack, initiated by the Saxon leader this time, was also indecisive. But Isabelle had seen that Tristan had barely managed to keep his body out of harm's way this way. The Saxon's technique blocked Tristan's normally deadly movements.

She skidded to a halt in the blood-soaked mud, drawing a throwing knife from her belt. She needed a moment to find her stance to be able to throw properly. She drew back her arm, eyes fixed on Tristan's enemy, and aimed.

Something shoved her from behind and Isabelle stumbled. Pain, unlike anything she'd ever experienced, suddenly burst from her stomach, flaring through her entire body. Her knife had flown from her hand, off-centre, but still slicing the Saxon's shoulder. The force from the impact spun him around and he stumbled.

Tristan's eyes shot from his suddenly injured enemy to the blue woman standing to the side. After a moment he seemed to recognise her. "Isabelle?" he mouthed.

Isabelle looked at him and then down to her stomach, where she could see the tip of a sword poking through, dripping red. She screamed when it was pulled back out of her roughly.

The confusion in Tristan's face made way for shock, and he leaped towards her, face a deadly white, cutting down the Saxon behind her with one swing.

Isabelle's knees buckled, and Tristan grabbed her arm to lay her gently on the ground. "No," he growled, pressing a hand against the gaping wound. "What are you doing here?"

She groaned in pain. "How bad?" she asked.

Tristan said nothing, but merely looked at the hand he covered the wound with. It was already slippery with blood. Slowly he removed it, his breath whistling through his teeth when he gritted them together. It didn't feel as if blood was gushing out of her, but she realised that the wound was so deep that it made no difference. And its location… If her intestines were pierced, she would die of infection, inevitably. "He ran me through," she said.

Tristan bent over, sniffing the wound carefully, and then jerked back up. He looked up at her face, the white of his eyes flashing, and then around him as if he were searching for help.

It was something she had never seen him do before and it scared her even more than the gruesome wound she knew she had, but that he was refusing to show her. "Tristan, I don't want to die," she said shakily.

Tristan's face twisted in pain, remembering how different her words were from the first time they had met, almost a year ago. He swore through clenched teeth. Isabelle recognised the words easily, but then of course, Kay's teaching her his native language had never extended much beyond creative cursing.

She choked when she thought of her friend. Only a few months ago he had lain on the ground in much the same way as her, and it were her hands that were trying to stop him from bleeding. In vain. It seemed that she would be following him soon. She wondered if he would be waiting for her.

Isabelle saw something behind Tristan and whispered a warning.

"Isabelle!" he growled at her.

"Fight," she repeated, louder. "Behind you."

Tristan let her go and turned around, fending off the Saxon leader, who had recovered himself.

Pressing her own hand against her stomach, Isabelle watched him. He was losing concentration. His eyes were constantly drawn to her. It was not long before the Saxon leader outmanoeuvred Tristan and drew a second blade, slicing it across Tristan's side.

Tristan checked the wound with his hand, eyes measuring his opponent. They flicked back to her after a moment.

Isabelle wanted to scream at him to focus, to keep his mind on the fight, but she was in too much pain to do anything but gasp. It was fast making her too light-headed to support herself on her arm, and slowly she lay down.

She had wanted to save him, but she had only made things worse. Tristan was not keeping his mind on the fight, and she could do nothing but lie here. Gawain would never know she'd come back for him, that she'd wanted to fight for him. Here she was, lying in the mud, about to lose both Gawain and Tristan.

She felt the warm stickiness of her blood on her hands. Probably more than just blood. All she could do was watch Tristan's fight, the outcome of it already inevitable. She could see the realisation, and yet also the resolve, in Tristan's eyes. He was going to take every bit of the Saxon leader he could with him.

Strike by strike the Saxon leader cut down Tristan's defences, until he slit a tendon and slashed his knife across Tristan's face, bringing him to his knees.

It was unbearable to watch Tristan's struggle to keep the Saxon at bay, slowly driven backwards blow after blow. Isabelle groaned when he picked his sword back up, knowingly taking the bait laid out for him. It was a desperate attempt, doomed to fail. The Saxon moved out of the sword's way and stabbed Tristan in the chest with his knife.

"Tristan!" Isabelle cried, despite the pain racking her when she breathed deeply. "No!"

He fell to the ground. His face was contorted with pain and like her, he was gasping for breath, when he looked at her. She reached out one bloody hand to him, fingers trembling.

Despite his lack of air, Tristan tried to drag himself to her, but he was so far away.

"Tristan," she repeated, choking. "Tristan."

Slowly he came closer to her. She could hear his ragged breathing now and knew his lungs were damaged. As they locked eyes, they shared the same thought. Everything would end very soon for them now. She laid her arm on the ground, reaching as far as she could.

The Saxon grabbed Tristan's hair and pulled him back up.

Isabelle saw the flicker of defiance in the knight's eyes. He slammed his left arm backwards, piercing the Saxon's leg with the knife he'd just snatched from the grass. It was her blade.

The retaliation was swift. The enraged Saxon drove Tristan's own sword deep into his side. Tristan's head flung backwards in pain. Isabelle groaned, but could not look away, her hand now lying limply on the grass. He was only a few feet away, but she could not touch him.

She whispered his name, hot tears trailing down her cheeks.

The Saxon leader cut him down with so much force, Tristan spun around and landed on his back. Isabelle cried out his name as loud as she could, but she did not have much strength left. Tristan did not move, his bloodied face turned towards her, but completely still.

She gasped when the Saxon suddenly loomed over her. He held his sword in his hand. Isabelle prayed inwardly he would finish it quickly. She could no longer stand the pain.

"Bastard," she panted. "What are you waiting for?"

The Saxon cocked his head and poised his sword over her body, ready to strike, until something beyond her vision caught his attention. He took off running.

Isabelle looked at the fallen knight next to her. "Tristan," she whispered, her throat thick with tears. He was looking at her.

His arm moved towards her, very slowly, his palm facing upwards. His breathing was so shallow Isabelle could not even see his chest move. She turned on her stomach and reached out again, but her body was failing her.

She could not touch him.

Tristan's eyes were slowly falling shut, but he held her gaze, their hands a mere feet apart. Isabelle knew she was losing the battle too, and rested her head in the reddened mud, watching Tristan.

She had never been able to read his emotions, but now, at this last moment, it was there in his face. Tristan curled up the corner of his mouth ever so slightly. She smiled back. His breath escaped with a hitch, before he closed his eyes.

He was gone.

"Goodbye, Gawain," Isabelle whispered. Crying soundlessly, she closed her eyes too, letting the waiting darkness consume her.

* * *

The fight was over. They'd won. Gawain's muscles were shaking with exhaustion, and his shoulder – the same bloody shoulder which had been shot a few months ago – was hurting like hell now that his battle rush was ebbing away.

"Galahad!" he called hoarsely.

His friend slit the throat of a wounded Saxon and stood up straight, pressing a hand to his back with a pained face.

"Are you hurt?" Gawain asked.

"No, just stiff. Gods, this took forever, didn't it?"

"You're just getting old."

Galahad snorted. "Look who's talking."

Gawain managed a chuckle, despite his lack of breath. "Can you see the others?"

"Bors!"

The oldest knight was helping Jols to his feet. The squire was limping badly, but did not seem to be injured otherwise. Together they made their way to Gawain and Galahad.

"Nearly broke my ankle, jumping off those stairs," Jols grumbled.

"What? You thought if that boy Ganis could do it, so could I?" Bors snorted.

Jols shrugged. "Have you seen him?"

"He was heading to the fort to find his sister and prepare for the wounded," Galahad said.

"I should go too," Jols replied. After a few reassurances that he was fine, he limped off towards the Wall.

"Any sight of the others?" Bors asked.

"Not yet." Galahad looked around him. "Too much bloody smoke."

Slowly they made their way across the battlefield. "'S your horse there," Galahad pointed out to Gawain.

"Looks calm enough," Gawain said. "I want to find the others first."

The conversation slowly died when they recognised nobody among the standing. In silence they trudged onward, all three of them now looking at the ground, though nobody made mention of it.

"Is that…" Galahad mumbled, suddenly taking off.

Bors cursed, his voice suddenly raw. Tristan's curved sword was standing in the mud, the scout lying next to it.

"Damn it, Tristan," Galahad hissed, as he kneeled next to his brother-in-arms. His fingers quickly searched his neck, but they stilled after a moment.

"Nothing?" Bors asked. Galahad shook his head.

Gawain stared down at the body of his friend, his brother-in-arms, and his rival. He gritted his teeth against the pain. This was not how it was supposed to end. Listening to Bors shouting out his frustration, he suddenly swayed with relief that Isabelle was not here to see this.

"I can see Arthur over there," he said.

"I'll carry him," Bors growled.

They helped him lift the scout over his shoulder. Gawain retrieved Tristan's sword, wiping it clean as well as he could. "Damn you, Tristan," he muttered. "You're supposed to be the best fighter of us all. What the hell happened to you?"

"Are you coming?" Galahad asked.

Gawain turned around and followed the other two. No one recognised the slender, blue figure lying in the mud, only a few feet away.

* * *

Numb to his core, Gawain watched his distraught commander and his dead comrades. He hardly even noticed the woman sitting next to Arthur, though it registered somewhere within him that she was the one they'd saved from the dungeon. Merlin had come and gone.

He missed the footsteps coming toward him, until they stopped at Lancelot's feet. He looked at the figure. It was that strange and reserved woman Morgan. She gazed upon Lancelot's body in silence. Then she sighed and seemed to admit something to herself. She spoke softly, "We will honour him."

Gawain stared at her, but she cocked her head to the side and looked at the other body. "The scout too?" she muttered, unpleasantly surprised. "I did not – "

Her black eyes suddenly flicked to Gawain's stare. "Where is the traveller?" she demanded. "Isabelle?"

Gawain's numbness was ripped viciously from him. "What?" he croaked. "You sent her home, what do you mean?"

"No, she came back with me," Morgan answered impatiently. "She fought with us. I last saw her near him." She pointed a red finger at the scout.

"Gods," Gawain breathed. He sprinted off, as fast as his injuries would let him, tailed by Galahad. "ISABELLE!" he roared repeatedly, making Woads turn and watch him. He made his way back to where the Saxon leader had been slain by Arthur, because it was there that they had found Tristan as well.

"Look for her, Galahad," Gawain growled. His eyes took in every standing person, but none of them were her, though his heart stopped every time he saw a brown-haired woman.

He was trying to come to terms with the fact that he would have search for her between the injured and dead on the ground, when Galahad's voice called him softly and sadly.

"Over here, Gawain."

He turned around and saw Galahad sitting next to a slender, dark-haired woman, covered in blue paint. "What? That's a Woa –" Gawain's voice choked. He recognised the knife lying next to the still figure.

"No," he breathed and ran over to his closest friend, who carefully brushed a lock of hair away from Isabelle's face. She was lying on her stomach in rust-coloured mud, one arm trapped under her, the other stretched out to something invisible.

Gawain sank to his knees, searching desperately for a heartbeat. "She can't – she can't…" He swore raggedly and turned her on her back, leaning over her. A faint breath ghosted over his cheek. "She's breathing!"

"Gawain…" Galahad said sadly. He laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"What? Let's get her to a healer!"

"Gawain, stop," Galahad spoke softly. "Look at her wound."

Gawain's breath hitched when he saw it. "No," he growled harshly.

"She's been run through," Galahad said. "We can't save her."

"Not here we can't."

"What?"

Gawain's roar echoed over the battlefield. "MORGAN!"

"Gawain, what are you –"

"MORGAN!"

The Woad jogged towards them. "What is it?" She looked down at Isabelle. "Oh."

"Take her to the lake," Gawain said hurriedly. "Get her home. Clara said that the people there could heal wounds that were deadly here."

Morgan dropped to her knees, examining Isabelle with nimble hands. She sat back on her heels after a moment. "She'll die before we reach the lake."

Gawain reached out and grabbed her by her arm, jerking her towards him. "Try!" he hissed savagely. "You brought her back here, now get her home!"

Morgan shook her head. "I did not bring her back. She wanted to come back to you."

"Gods, but why did she fight?" Gawain groaned.

"Because she saw you standing next to Arthur," Morgan answered. "She told me it was her fight too." The Woad shook her head. "I told her. I told her that this wasn't her place, that such wrongs were always righted one way or the other, but she didn't listen."

"Take her back then," he hissed, trying to control his urge to strangle her. "Make it right."

"She's dying, knight," Morgan said. "There's nothing anybody can do about that. Say your goodbyes."

Galahad slowly stood, placing his hand on his friend's good shoulder. "I'll wait over there." He took Morgan by the arm and led her away.

"Isabelle," Gawain whispered hoarsely. "Don't do this."

He glanced at her wound again, painfully visible because of the scarce leather in which she was clad, confronting him with the inevitability of what was going to happen. He took her into his arms, bowing his head to rest his forehead on her hair. Squeezing his burning eyes shut, he kissed her. The paint tasted strangely, but everything else was so familiar about her.

He sat in silence, rocking her gently to and fro.

"I came back…"

His eyes widened in shock and he looked down into clouded, green eyes.

"Isabelle…"

"...for you."

"I know," he said softly.

"Stupid… didn't look behind me…"

"Why did you fight?" he asked her desperately.

"New home, for both… of us…"

His pain and despair must have been visible in his face, because she sighed, "Doesn't hurt anymore now… Did we win?"

His face contorted. "Aye, we won." And he had lost everything.

"…'s good…" She closed her eyes.

"Isabelle," he said urgently. "Stay with me."

After a moment, her eyes fluttered open again. "Sorry I hurt you…"

"No, don't be," he growled. "I love you."

She smiled tremulously. "I love you too."

"Stay with me," he repeated.

"…sorry…"

He pressed her closer to him, suppressing the urge to scream. She was slipping away from him.

"Tristan… I saw him die…"

"I'm sorry, Isabelle."

"You think he'll wait for me?"

"He'd better," he snarled.

She chuckled.

"Tell him," he began, clenching and unclenching his jaw. "Tell him I expect him to take good care of you."

"I will," she sighed. "Take me back to the fort now… don't want to die in the mud…"

Gawain hesitated. "You're too weak to be moved. It'll –"

Her eyes became a bit clearer. "Gawain… take me home."

Recognising her request for what it was, he nodded silently. He kissed her softly and lifted her in his arms as carefully as he could. She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes.

"Goodbye," she whispered.

Gawain began to make his way towards the fort. "Goodbye," he whispered back.

On the way back, she died.


	56. Epilogue

**A/N: Well, this is the final chapter. I just checked the publishing date and to my horror discovered it was July 2005. Regular five month gaps between chapters might have something to do with that... So, I really want to thank you all for sticking to this story for so long. And also a thank you to the (relatively) new readers, who dared to start reading a story that is way too long, with way too much attention for minor characters, deviating from the main story line way too many times. I'm sorry, I can't help it. **

**I hope you will enjoy the last chapter and for a reference to the little girl's name in this chapter: see chapter 32. (It's been a while.)**

**Love,**

**Witch of Eastwick**

* * *

**Epilogue**

The stone bench was a menace to his aching joints. He'd become an old man. Thankfully the weather had been dry and warm for a few weeks now, a most unusual occurrence, and it had eased his pains greatly.

He stretched his back for a moment, before leaning against the wall again, looking out over the crowded courtyard. He was turning into a relic, he thought wryly, the last of his generation. Yet he couldn't complain. He'd lived a good life. A hard life, with many losses, but he had also received much for it in return.

He'd lived to see his children grow up and take his place at the Round Table, serving their king. Gingalin and Yvain, his eldest sons, were training younglings a few feet away from him, two of them being their little brother, Gareth, and Gingalin's own son, Caradoc.

He smiled as he watched the boys' coltish enthusiasm and admiration. Most training took place in the courtyard these days. The fortress they lived in now was so much larger than the old fort at the Wall and had been built a few years after Arthur had become king, in a more central part of the land.

Gareth looked at his father sitting there and waved, losing all concentration, until Gingalin whacked his backside with the flat side of his wooden sword. Gareth glared at his eldest brother.

Gawain laughed, quickly moulding his face into an appropriately stern expression when his tawny-haired son glared at him too. He listened to Gingalin berating his youngest sibling for a moment, before he sank back into his musing.

The first years of Arthur's reign had been hard on him. After he'd lost Isabelle, he'd barely even known he was alive. He'd just stumbled on, doing his part in establishing order and peace in the newly formed nation, and defending it from the endless flow of Saxon attacks.

Those years the roles had been reversed, Galahad taking care of Gawain.

They'd lost so many at the hands of the Saxons, but having a common enemy had forged a bond between former enemies, and it was in those hard years that Woads, Britons, Sarmatians, and remaining Romans went from a shaky, motley group of allies to one people.

A few years of relative calm followed, allowing for the new castle to be built. When that was done, Gawain remembered with a groan, Bors's sixteen-year-old daughter Elaine, still affectionately nicknamed Seven, had ended Galahad's philandering days by deciding he was the only one she ever wanted to marry. Galahad never stood a chance against Vanora's daughter.

They married the next summer, after Galahad had healed from the injuries inflicted by Bors. It was a fruitful marriage. Geraint, Megan, Percival, Bran, Pryderi, and young Vanora.

Their eldest, Geraint, had married Gawain's daughter, Enid.

Gawain shook his head with a smile. His little girl had seen even more of the land than he had, always on the road with her husband, who was a gifted emissary. Now that they had children, Enid stayed at Camelot more often, while Geraint continued to appease the many tribes of Britannia.

Aye, it was a fine son-in-law that he had, the spitting image of his father. Gawain chuckled. But with the persistence that ran through his mother's side of the family.

Ah, Bors and Vanora, Gawain reflected. Bors had never been the same after he'd lost his wife to the fever that had wreaked havoc in the land. Arthur had lost Guinevere and their unborn child, left behind with their thirteen-year-old son Emrys.

He himself had lost a child too, a daughter named Aline. His wife's smile had always held a sad tinge after that.

Unfortunately they'd seen much more loss. They'd faced civil war when Guinevere's cousin Morgan, gone unchecked by Merlin and Guinevere after their deaths, had rebelled against Arthur, with her son Mordred, claiming that Arthur and his family would lose the land to the Saxons.

Arthur had died in that battle, leaving his son to pick up his sword aged only seventeen. Emrys had been on the throne for many years now, restoring peace in his kingdom after putting down Morgan's rebellion. Bors had died in that war as well. Reckless he'd fought, on his way to his beloved Vanora.

Bors and Vanora had lost two of their daughters in childbirth, and three sons in battle. But their family still thrived. The count stood at forty-nine grandchildren and half of the Round Table was made up of Bors's sons and grandsons, Gawain believed.

Four years ago, his own wife had died. Galahad had died two years later, an old man like him. Now he was the only one left, the only one who'd been there since the beginning.

The only one who'd seen the founding of the kingdom over forty years ago.

Gawain hissed, surprised by the stab of pain. He hadn't thought of Badon Hill in a while. He could still feel the sick, cold feeling in his stomach as he'd searched the battlefield for her, and the pure, unadulterated disbelief that she'd come back only to die in his arms. They'd burned Lancelot and buried Tristan. It had taken Gawain another full day to be able to let go of her. He'd dug her grave himself, next to Tristan, overlooking the fort. He'd slammed one of her knives into the earth, marking her resting place. She'd fought in the fort raid and on Badon Hill. She'd earned it.

He'd weighed her other knife carefully in his hand, before driving it into the ground next to Tristan's sword, making his peace with the man who'd loved the same woman.

He'd walked away from the graveyard and done his part in the forging of Arthur's realm, feeling as dead as the bodies he'd left behind. Galahad and his pestering ways had managed to drag him back to life kicking and screaming eventually. It had taken a good pounding and an impressive screaming match on the younger knight's part for Gawain to listen.

It was Gawain to whom Tristan's hawk came, one day as he was scouting the area, a while later. It sat perched on his shoulder as he rode through the forest, claws digging deep into his shoulder, but Gawain cared not, because it was Tristan's hawk and these woods were Tristan's territory.

When the trees cleared, revealing grassy hills, Gawain hissed a curse through his clenched teeth. "You're being missed, you bloody scout," he muttered.

The hawk screeched and took flight, soaring above him in the open sky for a moment, before it circled and headed into the forest again. Gawain turned in his saddle to follow it with his eyes and watched it disappear into the shadowy path of the forest. For a moment the shadows shifted, and a tall, statuesque silhouette lifted an elegant arm, awaiting the hawk.

Gawain blinked and it was gone, as well as the hawk. "Goodbye," he murmured, raising his hand.

He'd married, had children, and lived the rest of his life. Gawain sighed, shifting to alleviate his groaning joints.

"Grandpa!"

Gawain looked at the young girl running towards him on sturdy legs. He smiled. "Esyllt, my little girl."

"I am not little," she protested indignantly as he heaved her into his lap. She tugged on his long hair. Grey it was now, not tawny. It hadn't been for a long time, but it was still unruly.

He looked at Esyllt's brown hair and green eyes. The Sarmatian pet name suited her. "A name from a story," Enid, her mother, had said once, and laid a hand on her father's shoulder. She'd always been too smart for her own good.

"Grandpa? Will you tell me about Kay and the Giant again? Or about Lancelot and the Lady in the Tower?"

"Again?" he said. "No, I'll tell you about Esyllt."

"About me?" his granddaughter gasped.

"No, this is another Esyllt. She was just as pretty as you are. And she loved a knight very much."

Her eyes lit up. "Who was it?"

"One of King Arthur's first knights. His name was Tristan."

"Why have you never told me this story before, grandpa?"

He closed his eyes for a moment. "Because it's a very special story," he answered. "Now sit still, you little squirrel, or I won't tell you."

Esyllt pouted, but settled against his chest.

As always, Gawain's low voice calmed his energetic granddaughter. She was playing with his hair as she listened to him recalling a time before Arthur's kingship, but sat very still otherwise, while Gawain spun his tale of memories.

"And Esyllt came from a land very far away," Gawain continued.

"Eire?"

He smiled knowingly. "Hibernia? Aye, something like that."


End file.
